c  7-ry 


WITHIN  THE  TIDES 

TALES 

BY 

JOSEPH  CONRAD 


,    .    Go,  make  you  readyo 

Hamlet  to  the  Players 


Garden  City  New  York 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1916 


a 


r 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PaGE  &  CoMPANT 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


COPYRIGHT,  191 1,  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 
COPYRIGHT,  I913,  I914,  BY  METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE 


^0 

Mr.    and    Mrs.    RALPH    WEDGWOOD 

THIS   SHEAF   OF   CARE-FREE   ANTE-BELLUM  PAGES 

IN  GRATITUDE  FOR  THEIR  CHARMING  HOSPITALITY 

IN  THE  LAST  MONTH  OF  PEACE 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Planter  of  Malata 3 

The  Partner 129 

The  Inn  of  the  Two  Witches 187 

Because  of  the  Dollars 239 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


//5  /  /  / 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


In  the  private  editorial  office  of  the  principal 
newspaper  in  a  great  colonial  city  two  men  were 
talking.  They  were  both  young.  The  stouter  of 
the  two,  fair,  and  with  more  of  an  urban  look 
about  him,  was  the  editor  and  part-owner  of  the 
important  newspaper. 

The  other's  name  was  Renouard.  That  he 
was  exercised  in  his  mind  about  something  was 
evident  on  his  fine  bronzed  face.  He  was  a  lean, 
lounging,  active  man.  The  journalist  continued 
the  conversation. 

"And  so  you  were  dining  yesterday  at  old 
Dunster's." 

He  used  the  word  old  not  in  the  endearing 
sense  in  which  it  is  sometimes  applied  to  in- 
timates, but  as  a  matter  of  sober  fact.  The 
Dunster  in  question  was  old.  He  had  been  an 
eminent  colonial  statesman,  but  had  now  retired 
from  active  politics  after  a  tour  in  Europe  and  a 
lengthy  stay  in  England,  during  which  he  had 


4  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

had  a  very  good  press  indeed.  The  colony  was 
proud  of  him. 

"Yes.  I  dined  there,"  said  Renouard.  "Young 
Dunster  asked  me  just  as  I  was  going  out  of  his 
office.  It  seemed  to  be  hke  a  sudden  thought. 
And  yet  I  can't  help  suspecting  some  purpose  be- 
hind it.  He  was  very  pressing.  He  swore  that 
his  uncle  would  be  very  pleased  to  see  me.  Said 
his  uncle  had  mentioned  lately  that  the  granting 
to  me  of  the  Malata  concession  was  the  last  act 
of  his  official  life." 

* '  Very  touching .  The  old  boy  sentimentalises 
over  the  past  now  and  then." 

"I  really  don't  know  why  I  accepted,"  con- 
tinued the  other.  "Sentiment  does  not  move 
me  very  easily.  Old  Dunster  was  civil  to  me  of 
course,  but  he  did  not  even  inquire  how  I  was 
getting  on  with  my  silk  plants.  Forgot  there 
was  such  a  thing  probably.  I  must  say  there 
were  more  people  there  than  I  expected  to  meet. 
Quite  a  big  party." 

"I  was  asked,"  remarked  the  newspaper  man. 
**Only  I  couldn't  go.  But  when  did  you  arrive 
from  Malata.^" 

"I  arrived  yesterday  at  daylight.  I  am 
anchored  out  there  in  the  bay — off  Garden 
Point.  I  was  in  Dunster's  office  before  he  had 
finished  reading  his  letters.     Have  you  ever  seen 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  5 

young  Dunster  reading  his  letters?  I  had  a 
gKmpse  of  him  through  the  open  door.  He  holds 
the  paper  in  both  hands,  hunches  his  shoulders 
up  to  his  ugly  ears,  and  brings  his  long  nose  and 
thick  lips  on  to  it  like  a  sucking  apparatus.  ^^ 
commercial  monster." 

"Here  we  don't  consider  him  a  monster,"  said 
the  newspaper  man  looking  at  his  visitor 
thoughtfully. 

"Probably  not.  You  are  used  to  seeing  his 
face  and  the  faces  of  others.  I  don't  know  how 
it  is  that,  when  I  come  to  town,  the  appearance 
of  the  people  in  the  street  strikes  me  with  such 
force.     They  seem  so  awfully  expressive." 

"And  not  charming." 

"  Well— no.  Not  as  a  rule.  The  effect  is  for- 
cible without  being  clear.  ...  I  know 
that  you  think  it's  because  of  my  solitary  man- 
ner of  life  away  there." 

"Yes.  I  do  think  so.  It  is  demoralising. 
You  don't  see  any  one  for  months  at  a  stretch. 
You're  leading  an  unhealthy  life." 

The  other  hardly  smiled  and  murmured  the 
admission  that  true  enough  it  was  a  good  eleven 
months  since  he  had  been  in  town  last. 

"You  see,"  insisted  the  other.  "Solitude 
works  like  a  sort  of  poison.  And  then  you  per- 
ceive   suggestions    in    faces — mysterious    and 


6  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

forcible,  that  no  sound  man  would  be  bothered 
with.     Of  course  you  do." 

Geoffrey  Renouard  did  not  tell  his  journalist 
friend  that  the  suggestions  of  his  own  face,  the 
face  of  a  friend,  bothered  him  as  much  as  the 
others.  He  detected  a  degrading  quality  in  the 
touches  of  age  which  every  day  adds  to  a  human 
countenance.  They  moved  and  disturbed  him, 
like  the  signs  of  a  horrible  inward  travail  which 
was  frightfully  apparent  to  the  fresh  eye  he  had 
brought  from  his  isolation  in  Malata,  where  he 
had  settled  after  five  strenuous  years  of  adven- 
ture and  exploration. 

"It's  a  fact,"  he  said,  "that  when  I  am  at 
home  in  Malata  I  see  no  one  consciously.  I  take 
the  plantation  boys  for  granted." 

"Well,  and  we  here  take  the  people  in  the 
streets  for  granted.     And  that's  sanity." 

The  visitor  said  nothing  to  this  for  fear  of  en- 
gaging a  discussion.  What  he  had  come  to  seek 
in  the  editorial  office  was  not  controversy,  but 
information.  Yet  somehow  he  hesitated  to 
approach  the  subject.  Solitary  life  makes  a 
man  reticent  in  respect  of  anything  in  the  nature 
of  gossip,  which  those  to  whom  chatting  about 
their  kind  is  an  everyday  exercise  regard  as  the 
commonest  use  of  speech. 

"You  very  busy?"  he  asked. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  7 

The  Editor  making  red  marks  on  a  long  slip  of 
printed  paper  threw  the  pencil  down. 

"No.  I  am  done.  Social  paragraphs.  This 
office  is  the  place  where  everything  is  known 
about  everybody — including  even  a  great  deal  of 
nobodies.  Queer  fellows  drift  in  and  out  of  this 
room.  Waifs  and  strays  from  home,  from  up- 
country,  from  the  Pacific.  And,  by  the  way, 
last  time  you  were  here  you  picked  up  one  of 
that  sort  for  your  assistant — didn't  you.^^  '* 

"I  engaged  an  assistant  only  to  stop  your 
preaching  about  the  evils  of  solitude,"  said 
Renouard  hastily;  and  the  pressman  laughed  at 
the  half -resentful  tone.  His  laugh  was  not  very 
loud,  but  his  plump  person  shook  all  over.  He 
was  aware  that  his  younger  friend's  deference  to 
his  advice  was  based  only  on  an  imperfect  belief 
in  his  wisdom — or  his  sagacity.  But  it  was  he 
who  had  first  helped  Renouard  in  his  plans  of  ex- 
ploration :  the  five-years'  programme  of  scientific 
adventure,  of  work,  of  danger  and  endurance, 
carried  out  with  such  distinction  and  rewarded 
modestly  with  the  lease  of  Malata  island  by  the 
frugal  colonial  government.  And  this  reward, 
too,  had  been  due  to  the  journalist's  advocacy 
with  word  and  pen — for  he  was  an  influential 
man  in  the  community.  Doubting  very  much  if 
Renouard  really  liked  him,  he  was  himself  with- 


8  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

out  great  sympathy  for  a  certain  side  of  that 
man  which  he  could  not  quite  make  out.  He 
only  felt  it  obscurely  to  be  his  real  personality — 
the  true — and,  perhaps,  the  absurd.  As,  for 
instance,  in  that  case  of  the  assistant.  Renouard 
had  given  way  to  the  arguments  of  his  friend  and 
backer — the  argument  against  the  unwholesome 
effect  of  solitude,  the  argument  for  the  safety  of 
companionship  even  if  quarrelsome.  Very  well. 
In  this  docility  he  was  sensible  and  even  likeable. 
But  what  did  he  do  next.^  Instead  of  taking 
counsel  as  to  the  choice  with  his  old  backer  and 
friend,  and  a  man,  besides,  knowing  everybody 
employed  and  unemployed  on  the  pavements  of 
the  town,  this  extraordinary  Renouard  suddenly 
and  almost  surreptitiously  picked  up  a  fellow — 
God  knows  who — and  sailed  away  with  him  back 
to  Malata  in  a  hurry;  a  proceeding  obviously 
rash  and  at  the  same  time  not  quite  straight. 
That  was  the  sort  of  thing.  The  secretly  unfor- 
giving journalist  laughed  a  little  longer  and  then 
ceased  to  shake  all  over. 

"Oh,  yes.   About  that  assistant  of  yours.  .  .  ." 
"What  about  him.^"  said   Renouard,    after 
waiting  a  while,  with  a  shadow  of  uneasiness  on 
his  face. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  of  him.^" 
"Nothing  except.     .     .     ."     Incipient  grim- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  9 

ness  vanished  out  of  Renouard's  aspect  and  his 
voice,  while  he  hesitated  as  if  reflecting  seriously 
before  he  changed  his  mind.  "No.  Nothing 
whatever." 

"You  haven't  brought  him  along  with  you  by 
chance — for  a  change." 

The  Planter  of  Malata  stared,  then  shook 
his  head,  and  finally  murmured  carelessly:  "I 
think  he's  very  well  where  he  is.  But  I  wish  you 
could  tell  me  why  young  Dunster  insisted  so 
much  on  my  dining  with  his  uncle  last  night. 
Everybody  knows  I  am  not  a  society  man." 

The  Editor  exclaimed  at  so  much  modesty. 
Didn't  his  friend  know  that  he  was  their  one  and 
only  explorer — that  he  was  the  man  experiment- 
ing with  the  silk  plant.     .     .     . 

"Still,  that  doesn't  tell  me  why  I  was  invited 
yesterday.  For  young  Dunster  never  thought 
of  this  civility  before.     .     .     ." 

"Our  Willie,"  said  the  popular  journalist, 
"never  does  anything  without  a  purpose,  that's 
a  fact." 

"And  to  his  uncle's  house  too!" 

"He  lives  there." 

"Yes.  But  he  might  have  given  me  a  feed 
somewhere  else.  The  extraordinary  part  is  that 
the  old  man  did  not  seem  to  have  anything 
special  to  say.     He  smiled  kindly  on  me  once  or 


y^ 


10  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

twice,  and  that  was  all.     It  was  quite  a  party, 
sixteen  people." 

The  Editor  then,  after  expressing  his  regret 
that  he  had  not  been  able  to  come,  wanted  to 
know  if  the  party  had  been  entertaining 

Renouard  regretted  that  his  friend  had  not 
been  there.  Being  a  man  whose  business  or  at 
least  whose  profession  was  to  know  everything 
that  went  on  in  this  part  of  the  globe,  he  could 
probably  have  told  him  something  of  some 
people  lately  arrived  from  home,  who  were 
amongst  the  guests.  Young  Dunster  (Willie), 
with  his  large  shirt  front  and  streaks  of  white 
skin  shining  unpleasantly  through  the  thin  black 
hair  plastered  over  the  top  of  his  head,  bore 
down  on  him  and  introduced  him  to  that  party, 
as  if  he  had  been  a  trained  dog  or  a  child  phe- 
nomenon. Decidedly,  he  said,  he  disliked 
Willie — one  of  these  large  oppressive  men.    .    .    . 

A  silence  fell,  and  it  was  as  if  Renouard  were 
not  going  to  say  anything  more  when,  suddenly, 
he  came  out  with  the  real  object  of  his  visit  to  the 
editorial  room. 

"They  looked  to  me  like  people  under  a  spell." 

The  Editor  gazed  at  him  appreciatively,  think- 
ing that,  whether  the  effect  of  solitude  or  not, 
this  was  a  proof  of  a  sensitive  perception  of  the 
expression  of  faces. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  11 

"You  omitted  to  tell  me  their  name,  but  I  can 
make  a  guess.  You  mean  Proiessor  Moorsom, 
his  daughter  and  sister — don't  you?" 

Renouard  assented.  Yes,  a  white-haired 
lady.  But  from  his  silence,  with  his  eyes  fixed, 
yet  avoiding  his  friend,  it  was  easy  to  guess  that 
it  was  not  in  the  white-haired  lady  that  he  was 
interested. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  recovering  his 
usual  bearing.  "It  looks  to  me  as  if  I  had  been 
asked  there  only  for  the  daughter  to  talk  to  me." 

He  did  not  conceal  that  he  had  been  greatly 
struck  by  her  appearance.  Nobody  could  have 
helped  being  impressed.  She  was  different  from 
everybody  else  in  that  house,  and  it  was  not  only 
the  effect  of  her  London  clothes.  He  did  not 
take  her  down  to  dinner.  Willie  did  that.  It 
was  afterwards,  on  the  terrace.     .     .     . 

The  evening  was  delightfully  calm.  He  was 
sitting  apart  and  alone,  and  wishing  himself 
somewhere  else — on  board  the  schooner  for 
choice,  with  the  dinner-harness  off.  He  hadn't 
exchanged  forty  words  altogether  during  the 
evening  with  the  other  guests.  He  saw  her 
suddenly  all  by  herself  coming  towards  him  along 
the  dimly  lighted  terrace,  quite  from  a  distance. 

She  was  tall  and  supple,  carrying  nobly  on  her 
straight  body  a  head  of  a  character  which  to  him 


1«  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

appeared  peculiar,  something — well— pagan, 
crowned  with  a  great  wealth  of  hair.  He  had 
been  about  to  rise,  but  her  decided  approach 
caused  him  to  remain  on  the  seat.  He  had  not 
looked  much  at  her  that  evening.  He  had  not 
that  freedom  of  gaze  acquired  by  the  habit  of 
^y  society  and  the  frequent  meetings  with  strangers. 
It  was  not  shyness,  but  the  reserve  of  a  man  not 
used  to  the  world  and  to  the  practice  of  covert 
staring,  with  careless  curiosity.  All  he  had 
captured  by  his  first,  keen,  instantly  lowered 
glance  was  the  impression  that  her  hair  was  mag- 
nificently red  and  her  eyes  very  black.  It  was  a 
troubling  effect,  but  it  had  been  evanescent;  he 
had  forgotten  it  almost  till  very  unexpectedly  he 
saw  her  coming  down  the  terrace  slow  and  eager, 
as  if  she  were  restraining  herself,  and  with  a 
rhythmic  upward  undulation  of  her  whole  figure. 
The  light  from  an  open  window  fell  across  her 
path,  and  suddenly  all  that  mass  of  arranged 
hair  appeared  incandescent,  chiselled  and  fluid, 
with  the  daring  suggestion  of  a  helmet  of  bur- 
nished copper  and  the  flowing  lines  of  molten 
metal.  It  kindled  in  him  an  astonished  admira- 
tion. But  he  said  nothing  of  it  to  his  friend  the 
Editor.  Neither  did  he  tell  him  that  her  ap- 
proach woke  up  in  his  brain  the  image  of  love's 
infinite  grace  and  the  sense  of  the  inexhaustible 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  13 

joy  that  lives  in  beauty.  No!  What  he  im- 
parted to  the  Editor  were  no  emotions,  but  mere 
facts  conveyed  in  a  dehberate  voice  and  in  unin- 
spired words. 

"That  young  lady  came  and  sat  down  by  me. 
She  said:  'Are  you  French,  Mr.  Renouard.? '% 

He  had  breathed  a  whiff  of  perfume  of  which 
he  said  nothing  either — of  some  perfume  he  did 
not  know.  Her  voice  was  low  and  distinct.  Her 
shoulders  and  her  bare  arms  gleamed  with  an 
extraordinary  splendour,  and  when  she  advanced 
her  head  into  the  light  he  saw  the  admirable 
contour  of  the  face,  the  straight  fine  nose  with 
delicate  nostrils,  the  exquisite  crimson  brush- 
stroke of  the  lips  on  this  oval  without  colour. 
The  expression  of  the  eyes  was  lost  in  a  shadowy 
mysterious  play  of  jet  and  silver,  stirring  under 
the  red  coppery  gold  of  the  hair  as  though  she 
had  been  a  being  made  of  ivory  and  precious 
metals  changed  into  living  tissue. 

" .  .  .  I  told  her  my  people  were  living  in 
Canada,  but  that  I  was  brought  up  in  England 
before  coming  out  here.  I  can't  imagine  what 
interest  she  could  have  in  my  history." 

"And  you  complain  of  her  interest? " 

The  accent  A  the  all-knowing  journalist 
seemed  to  jar  on  the  Planter  of  Malata. 

"No!"  he  said  in  a  deadened  voice  that  was 


14  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

almost  sullen.  But  after  a  short  silence  he  went 
on.  "Very  extraordinary.  I  told  her  I  came 
out  to  wander  at  large  in  the  world  when  I  was 
/'nineteen,  almost  directly  after  I  left  school.  It 
seems  that  her  late  brother  was  in  the  same 
school  a  couple  of  years  before  me.  She  wanted 
me  to  tell  her  what  I  did  at  first  when  I  came  out 
here;  what  other  men  found  to  do  when  they 
came  out — where  they  went,  what  was  likely  to 
happen  to  them — as  if  I  could  guess  and  foretell 
from  my  experience  the  fates  of  men  who  come 
out  here  with  a  hundred  different  projects,  for 
hundreds  of  different  reasons — for  no  reason  but 
restlessness — who  come,  and  go,  and  disappear! 
Preposterous.  She  seemed  to  want  to  hear 
their  histories.  I  told  her  that  most  of  them 
were  not  worth  telling." 

The  distinguished  journalist  leaning  on  his 
elbow,  his  head  resting  against  the  knuckles  of 
his  left  hand,  listened  with  great  attention,  but 
gave  no  sign  of  that  surprise  which  Renouard, 
pausing,  seemed  to  expect. 

"You  know  something,"  the  latter  said 
brusquely.  The  all-knowing  man  moved  his 
head  slightly  and  said,  "Yes.     But  go  on." 

"It's  just  this.  There  is  no  more  to  it.  I 
found  myself  talking  to  her  of  my  adventures,  of 
my  early  days.     It  couldn't  possibly  have  in- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  15 

terested  her.  Really,"  he  cried,  "this  is  most 
extraordinary.  Those  people  have  something 
on  their  minds.  We  sat  in  the  light  of  the  win- 
dow, and  her  father  prowled  about  the  terrace, 
with  his  hands  behind  his  back  and  his  head 
drooping.  The  white-haired  lady  came  to  the 
dining-room  window  twice — to  look  at  us  I  am 
certain.  The  other  guests  began  to  go  away — 
and  still  we  sat  there.  Apparently  these  people 
are  staying  with  the  Dunsters.  It  was  old  Mrs. 
Dunster  who  put  an  end  to  the  thing.  The 
father  and  the  aunt  circled  about  as  if  they  were 
afraid  of  interfering  with  the  girl.  Then  she  got 
up  all  at  once,  gave  me  her  hand,  and  said  she 
hoped  she  would  see  me  again." 

While  he  was  speaking  Renouard  saw  again 
the  sway  of  her  figure  in  a  movement  of  grace 
and  strength — felt  the  pressure  of  her  hand — 
heard  the  last  accents  of  the  deep  murmur  that 
came  from  her  throat  so  white  in  the  light  of  the 
window,  and  remembered  the  black  rays  of  her 
steady  eyes  passing  off  his  face  when  she  turned 
away.  He  remembered  all  this  visually,  and 
it  was  not  exactly  pleasurable.  It  was  rather 
startling  like  the  discovery  of  a  new  faculty  in 
himself.  There  are  faculties  one  would  rather 
do  without — such,  for  instance,  as  seeing  through 
a  stone  wall  or  remembering  a  person  with  this 


^, 


16  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

uncanny  vividness.  And  what  about  those  two 
people  belonging  to  her  with  their  air  of  ex- 
pectant solicitude!     Really,  those  figures  from 

ome  got  in  front  of  one.  In  fact,  their  per- 
sistence in  getting  between  him  and  the  solid 
forms  of  the  everyday  material  world  had 
driven  Renouard  to  call  on  his  friend  at  the 
office.  He  hoped  that  a  little  common,  gossipy 
information  would  lay  the  ghost  of  that  unex- 
pected dinner-party.  Of  course  the  proper  per- 
son to  go  to  would  have  been  young  Dunster, 
but  he  couldn't  stand  Willie  Dunster — not  at 
any  price. 

^In  the  pause  the  Editor  had  changed  his 
attitude,  faced  his  desk,  and  smiled  a  faint  know- 
ing smile. 

"Striking  girl — eh.^"  he  said. 
The  incongruity  of  the  word  was  enough  to 
make  one  jump  out  of  the  chair.  Striking!  That 
girl  striking!  Stri  .  .  .  !  But  Renouard  re- 
strained his  feelings .  His  friend  was  not  a  person 
to  give  oneself  away  to.  And,  after  all,  this  sort 
of  speech  was  what  he  had  come  there  to  hear. 
As,  however,  he  had  made  a  movement  he  re- 
settled himself  comfortably  and  said,  with  very 
creditable  indifference,  that  yes — she  was,  rather. 
Especially  amongst  a  lot  of  over-dressed  frumps. 
There  wasn't  one  woman  under  forty  there. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  JVIALATA  17 

"Is  that  the  way  to  speak  of  the  cream  of  our 
society;  the  'top  of  the  basket,'  as  the  French 
say?"  the  Editor  remonstrated  with  mock  indig- 
nation. "You  aren't  moderate  in  your  ex- 
pressions— you  know." 

"I  express  myself  very  little,"  interjected 
Renouard  seriously. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  you  are.  You  are  a 
fellow  that  doesn't  count  the  cost.  Of  course 
you  are  safe  with  me,  but  will  you  never 
learn.     .     .     ." 

"What  struck  me  most,"  interrupted  the 
other,  "is  that  she  should  pick  me  out  for  such  a 
long  conversation." 

"That's  perhaps  because  you  were  the  most 
remarkable  of  the  men  there." 

Renouard  shook  his  head. 

"This  shot  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  hit  the 
mark,"  he  said  calmly.     "Try  again." 

"Don't  you  believe  me.^  Oh,  you  modest 
creature.  Well,  let  me  assure  you  that  under 
ordinary  circumstances  it  would  have  been  a 
good  shot.  You  are  sufficiently  remarkable. 
But  you  seem  a  pretty  acute  customer  too.  The 
circumstances  are  extraordinary.  By  Jove,  they 
are!" 

He  mused.  After  a  time  the  Planter  of 
Malata  dropped  a  negligent — 


18  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

"And  you  know  them." 

"And  I  know  them,"  assented  the  all-knowing 
Editor,  soberly,  as  though  the  occasion  were  too 
special  for  a  display  of  professional  vanity;  a 
vanity  so  well  known  to  Renouard  that  its 
absence  augmented  his  wonder  and  almost  made 
him  uneasy  as  if  portending  bad  news  of  some 
sort. 

"You  have  met  those  people.^"  he  asked. 

"  No.  I  was  to  have  met  them  last  night,  but 
I  had  to  send  an  apology  to  Willie  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  was  then  that  he  had  the  bright  idea  to 
invite  you  to  fill  the  place,  from  a  muddled  no- 
tion that  you  could  be  of  use.  Willie  is  stupid 
sometimes.  For  it  is  clear  that  you  are  the  last 
man  able  to  help." 

"How  on  earth  do  I  come  to  be  mixed  up  in 
this — whatever  it  is?"  Renouard's  voice  was 
slightly  altered  by  nervous  irritation.  "I  only 
arrived  here  yesterday  morning." 


II 


His  friend  the  Editor  turned  to  him  squarely. 
"Willie  took  me  into  consultation,  and  since  he 
seems  to  have  let  you  in  I  may  just  as  well  tell 
you  what  is  up.  I  shall  try  to  be  as  short  as  I 
can.     But  in  confidence — mind!" 

He  waited.  Renouard,  his  uneasiness  grow- 
ing on  him  unreasonably,  assented  by  a  nod,  and 
the  other  lost  no  time  in  beginning.  Professor 
Moorsom — physicist  and  philosopher — fine  head 
of  white  hair,  to  judge  from  the  photographs — 
plenty  of  brains  in  the  head  too — all  these 
famous  books — surely  even  Renouard  would 
know.     .     .     . 

Renouard  muttered  moodily  that  it  wasn't 
his  sort  of  reading,  and  his  friend  hastened  to 
assure  him  earnestly  that  neither  was  it  his  sort 
— except  as  a  matter  of  business  and  duty,  for 
the  literary  page  of  that  newspaper  which  was 
his  property  (and  the  pride  of  his  life) .  The  only 
literary  newspaper  in  the  Antipodes  could  not 
ignore  the  fashionable  philosopher  of  the  age. 
Not  that  anybody  read  Moorsom  at  the  Antip- 

19 


20  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

odes,  but  everybody  had  heard  of  him — women, 
children,  dock  labourers,  cabmen.  The  only 
person  (besides  himself)  who  had  read  Moorsom, 
as  far  as  he  knew,  was  old  Dunster,  who  used  to 
.call  himself  a  Moorsomian  (or  was  it  Moor- 
somite)  years  and  years  ago,  long  before  Moor- 
som had  worked  himself  up  into  the  great  swell 
he  was  now,  in  every  way.  .  .  .  Socially 
too.     Quite  the  fashion  in  the  highest  world. 

Renouard  listened  with  profoundly  concealed 
attention.  "A  charlatan,"  he  muttered  lan- 
guidly. 

"Well — no.  I  should  say  not.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  though  if  most  of  his  writing  had  been 
done  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  Of  course. 
That's  to  be  expected.  I  tell  you  what :  the  only 
really  honest  writing  is  to  be  found  in  news^ 
papers  and  nowhere  else — and  don't  you  forget 
it." 

The  Editor  paused  with  a  basilisk  stare  till 
Renouard  had  conceded  a  casual:  "I  dare  say," 
and  only  then  went  on  to  explain  that  old 
Dunster,  during  his  European  tour,  had  been 
made  rather  a  lion  of  in  London,  where  he  stayed 
with  the  Moorsoms — he  meant  the  father  and 
the  girl.  The  professor  had  been  a  widower  for 
a  long  time. 

"She  doesn't  look  just  a  girl,"  muttered  Re- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  21 

nouard.  The  other  agreed.  Very  Hkely  not. 
Had  been  playing  the  London  hostess  to  tip-top 
people  ever  since  she  put  her  hair  up,  probably. 

*'I  don't  expect  to  see  any  girlish  bloom  on  her 
when  I  do  have  the  privilege,"  he  continued. 
"Those  people  are  staying  with  the  Dunsters 
incog.,  in  a  manner,  you  understand — something 
like  royalties.  They  don't  deceive  anybody,  but 
they  want  to  be  left  to  themselves.  We  have 
even  kept  them  out  of  the  paper — to  oblige  old 
Dunster.  But  we  shall  put  your  arrival  in — our 
local  celebrity." 

"Heavens!" 

"Yes.  Mr.  G.  Renouard,  the  explorer,  whose 
indomitable  energy,  etc.,  and  who  is  now  work- 
ing for  the  prosperity  of  our  country  in  another 
way  on  his  Malata  plantation  .  .  .  And,  by 
the  by,  how's  the  silk  plant — flourishing.^  " 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  bring  any  fibre .^" 

"Schooner-full." 

"I  see.     To  be  transhipped  to  Liverpool  for7 
experimental  manufacture,  eh?     Eminent  capi-  ' 
tahsts  at  home  very  much  interested,   aren't 
they.?" 

"They  are." 

A  silence  fell.  Then  the  Editor  uttered 
slowly:    "  You  will  be  a  rich  man  some  day." 


22  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

Renouard's  face  did  not  betray  his  opinion  of 
that  confident  prophecy.  He  didn't  say  any- 
thing till  his  friend  suggested  in  the  same  medi- 
tative voice — 

"You  ought  to  interest  Moorsom  in  the  affair 
too — since  Willie  has  let  you  in." 

"A  philosopher!" 

"I  suppose  he  isn't  above  making  a  bit  of 
money.  And  he  may  be  clever  at  it  for  all  you 
know.  I  have  a. notion  that  he's  a  fairly  practi- 
cal old  cove.  .  .  .  Anyhow,"  and  here  the 
tone  of  the  speaker  took  on  a  tinge  of  respect,  *'he 
has  made  philosophy  pay." 

Renouard  raised  his  eyes,  repressed  an  im- 
pulse to  jump  up,  and  got  out  of  the  arm-chair 
slowly.  "It  isn't  perhaps  a  bad  idea,"  he  said. 
"I'll  have  to  call  there  in  any  case." 

He  wondered  whether  he  had  managed  to  keep 
his  voice  steady,  its  tone  unconcerned  enough; 
for  his  emotion  was  strong  though  it  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  business  aspect  of  this  suggestion. 
He  moved  in  the  room  in  vague  preparation  for 
departure,  when  he  heard  a  soft  laugh.  He 
spun  about  quickly  with  a  frown,  but  the  Editor 
was  not  laughing  at  him.  He  was  chuckling 
across  the  big  desk  at  the  wall:  a  preliminary  of 
some  speech  for  which  Renouard,  recalled  to  him- 
self, waited  silent  and  mistrustful. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  23 

**No!  You  would  never  guess!  No  one 
would  ever  guess  what  these  people  are  after. 
Willie's  eyes  bulged  out  when  he  came  to  me 
with  the  tale." 

"They  always  do,"  remarked  Renouard  with 
disgust.     "He's  stupid." 

"He  was  startled.  And  so  was  I  after  he  told 
me.  It's  a  search  party.  They  are  out  looking 
for  a  man.  Willie's  soft  heart's  enlisted  in  the 
cause." 

Renouard  repeated:  "Looking  for  a  man." 
He  sat  down  suddenly  as  if  on  purpose  to  stare. 
"Did  Willie  come  to  you  to  borrow  the  lantern," 
he  asked  sarcastically,  and  got  up  again  for  no 
apparent  reason. 

"What  lantern.^  "  snapped  the  puzzled  Editor, 
and  his  face  darkened  with  suspicion.  "You, 
Renouard,  are  always  alluding  to  things  that 
aren't  clear  to  me.  If  you  were  in  politics,  I,  as 
a  party  journalist,  wouldn't  trust  you  further 
than  I  could  see  you.  Not  an  inch  further. 
You  are  such  a  sophisticated  beggar.  Listen: 
the  man  is  the  man  Miss  Moorsom  was  en- 
gaged to  for  a  year.  He  couldn't  have  been  a 
nobody,  anyhow.  But  he  doesn't  seem  to 
have  been  very  wise.  Hard  luck  for  the  young 
lady." 

He  spoke  with  feeling.     It  was  clear  that 


24  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

what  he  had  to  tell  appealed  to  his  sentiment. 
Yet,  as  an  experienced  man  of  the  world,  he 
marked  his  amused  wonder.  Young  man  of 
good  family  and  connections,  going  everywhere, 
yet  not  merely  a  man  about  town,  but  with  a 
foot  in  the  two  big  F's. 

Renouard  lounging  aimlessly  in  the  room 
turned  round:  "And  what  the  devil's  that?"  he 
asked  faintly. 

"Why  Fashion  and  Finance,"  explained  the 
Editor.  "That's  how  I  call  it.  There  are  the 
three  R's  at  the  bottom  of  the  social  edifice  and 
the  two  F's  on  the  top.     See.^  " 

"Ha!  Ha!  Excellent!  Ha!  Ha!"  Re- 
nouard  laughed  with  stony  eyes. 

"And  you  proceed  from  one  set  to  the  other 
in  this  democratic  age,"  the  Editor  went  on  with 
unperturbed  complacency.  "That  is  if  you  are 
clever  enough.  The  only  danger  is  in  being  too 
clever.  And  I  think  something  of  the  sort  hap- 
pened here.  That  swell  I  am  speaking  of  got 
himself  into  a  mess.  Apparently  a  very  ugly 
mess  of  a  financial  character.  You  will  under- 
stand that  Willie  did  not  go  into  details  with  me. 
They  were  not  imparted  to  him  with  very  great 
abundance  either.  But  a  bad  mess — something 
of  the  criminal  order.  Of  course  he  was  inno- 
cent.    But  he  had  to  quit  all  the  same. " 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  25 

"Ha!  Ha!"  Renouard  laughed  again 
abruptly,  staring  as  before.  "So  there's  one 
more  big  F  in  the  tale." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  the  Editor 
quickly,  with  an  air  as  if  his  patent  were  being 
infringed. 

"I  mean— Fool." 

"No.  I  wouldn't  say  that.  I  wouldn't  say 
that." 

"Well — let  him  be  a  scoundrel  then.  What 
the  devil  do  I  care." 

"But  hold  on!  You  haven't  heard  the  end 
of  the  story." 

Renouard,  his  hat  on  his  head  already,  sat 
down  with  the  disdainful  smile  of  a  man  who  had 
discounted  the  moral  of  the  story.  Still  he  sat 
down  and  the  Editor  swung  his  revolving  chair 
right  round.     He  was  full  of  unction. 

"Imprudent,  I  should  say.  In  many  ways 
money  is  as  dangerous  to  handle  as  gunpowder. 
You  can't  be  too  careful  either  as  to  who  you  are 
working  with.  Anyhow  there  was  a  mighty 
flashy  burst  up,  a  sensation,  and — his  familiar 
haunts  kiiew  him  no  more.  But  before  he 
vanished  he  went  to  see  Miss  Moorsom.  That 
very  fact  argues  for  his  innocence — don't  it? 
What  was  said  between  them  no  man  knows — 
unless  the  professor  had  the  confidence  from  his 


g6  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

daughter.  There  couldn't  have  been  much 
to  say.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  let 
him  go — was  there? — for  the  affair  had  got  into 
the  papers.  And  perhaps  the  kindest  thing 
would  have  been  to  forget  him.  Anyway  the 
easiest.  Forgiveness  would  have  been  more 
difficult,  I  fancy,  for  a  young  lady  of  spirit  and 
position  drawn  into  an  ugly  affair  like  that. 
Any  ordinary  young  lady,  I  mean.  Well,  the 
fellow  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  forgotten, 
only  he  didn't  find  it  easy  to  do  so  himself,  be- 
cause he  would  write  home  now  and  then.  Not 
to  any  of  his  friends  though.  He  had  no  near 
relations.  The  professor  had  been  his  guardian. 
No,  the  poor  devil  wrote  now  and  then  to  an  old 
retired  butler  of  his  late  father,  somewhere  in  the 
country,  forbidding  him  at  the  same  time  to  let 
any  one  know  of  his  whereabouts.  So  that 
worthy  old  ass  would  go  up  and  dodge  about  the 
Moorsom's  town  house,  perhaps  waylay  Miss 
Moorsom's  maid,  and  then  would  write  to 
*  Master  Arthur'  that  the  young  lady  looked 
well  and  happy,  or  some  such  cheerful  intelli- 
gence. I  dare  say  he  wanted  to  be  forgotten, 
but  I  shouldn't  think  he  was  much  cheered  by 
the  news.     What  would  you  say  .^^ " 

Renouard,  his  legs  stretched  out  and  his  chin 
on  his  breast,  said  nothing.     A  sensation  which 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  27 

was  not  curiosity,  but  rather  a  vague  nervous 
anxiety,  distinctly  unpleasant,  like  a  mysterious 
symptom  of  some  malady,  prevented  him  from 
getting  up  and  going  away. 

"  Mixed  feelings,"  the  Editor  opined.  "  Many 
fellows  out  here  receive  news  from  home  with 
mixed  feelings.  But  what  will  his  feelings  be 
when  he  hears  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  now? 
For  we  know  he  has  not  heard  yet.  Six  months 
ago  a  city  clerk,  just  a  common  drudge  of 
finance,  gets  himself  convicted  of  a  common 
embezzlement  or  something  of  that  kind.  Then 
seeing  he's  in  for  a  long  sentence  he  thinks  of 
making  his  conscience  comfortable,  and  makes  a 
clean  breast  of  an  old  story  of  tampered  with,  or 
else  suppressed,  documents,  a  story  which  clears 
altogether  the  honesty  of  our  ruined  gentleman.'' 
That  embezzling  fellow  was  in  a  position  to 
know,  having  been  employed  by  the  firm  before 
the  smash.  There  was  no  doubt  about  the 
character  being  cleared — but  where  the  cleared 
man  was  nobody  could  tell.  Another  sensation 
in  society.  And  then  Miss  Moorsom  says:  *He 
will  come  back  to  claim  me,  and  I'll  marry  him.' 
But  he  didn't  come  back.  Between  you  and  me 
I  don't  think  he  was  much  wanted — except  by 
Miss  Moorsom.  I  imagine  she's  used  to  have  her 
own  way.     She  grew  impatient,  and  declared 


28  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

that  if  she  knew  where  the  man  was  she  would  go 
to  him.  But  all  that  could  be  got  out  of  the  old 
butler  was  that  the  last  envelope  bore  the  post- 
mark of  our  beautiful  city;  and  that  this  was  the 
only  address  of  'Master  Arthur'  that  he  ever 
had.  That  and  no  more.  In  fact  the  fellow 
was  at  his  last  gasp — with  a  bad  heart.  Miss 
Moorsom  wasn't  allowed  to  see  him.  She  had 
gone  herself  into  the  country  to  learn  what  she 
could,  but  she  had  to  stay  downstairs  while  the 
old  chap's  wife  went  up  to  the  invalid.  She 
brought  down  the  scrap  of  intelligence  I've  told 
you  of.  He  was  already  too  far  gone  to  be  cross- 
examined  on  it,  and  that  very  night  he  died.  He 
didn't  leave  behind  him  much  to  go  by,  did  he.^^ 
Our  Willie  hinted  to  me  that  there  had  been 
pretty  stormy  days  in  the  professor's  house,  but 
— here  they  are.  I  have  a  notion  she  isn't  the 
kind  of  everyday  young  lady  who  may  be  per- 
mitted to  gallop  about  the  world  all  by  herself — 
eh.^  Well,  I  think  it  rather  fine  of  her,  but  I  quite 
understand  that  the  professor  needed  all  his 
philosophy  under  the  circumstances.  She  is  his 
only  child  now — and  brilliant — what.'^  Willie 
positively  spluttered  trying  to  describe  her  to 
me;  and  I  could  see  directly  j^ou  came  in  that  you 
had  an  uncommon  experience." 

Renouard,  with  an  irritated  gesture,  tilted  his 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  29 

hat  more  forward  on  his  eyes,  as  though  he  were 
bored.  The  Editor  went  on  with  the  remark 
that  to  be  sure  neither  he  (Renouard)  nor  yet 
WiUie  were  much  used  to  meet  girls  of  that  re- 
markable superiority.  Willie  when  learning 
business  with  a  firm  in  London,  years  before,  had 
seen  none  but  boarding-house  society,  he 
guessed.  As  to  himself  in  the  good  old  days, 
when  he  trod  the  glorious  flags  of  Fleet  Street,  he 
neither  had  access  to,  nor  yet  would  have  cared 
for  the  swells.  Nothing  interested  him  then  but 
parliamentary  politics  and  the  oratory  of  the 
House  of  Commons. 

He  paid  to  this  not  very  distant  past  the 
tribute  of  a  tender,  reminiscent  smile,  and  re- 
turned to  his  first  idea  that  for  a  society  girl  her 
action  was  rather  fine.  All  the  same  the  pro- 
fessor could  not  be  very  pleased.  The  fellow  if 
he  was  as  pure  as  a  lily  now  was  just  about  as 
devoid  of  the  goods  of  the  earth.  And  there 
were  misfortunes,  however  undeserved,  which 
damaged  a  man's  standing  permanently.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  was  difiicult  to  oppose 
cynically  a  noble  impulse — not  to  speak  of  the 
great  love  at  the  root  of  it.  Ah!  Love!  And 
then  the  lady  was  quite  capable  of  going  off  by 
herself.  She  was  of  age,  she  had  money  of  her 
own,  plenty  of  pluck  too.     Moorsom  must  have 


30  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

concluded  that  it  was  more  truly  paternal,  more 
prudent  too,  and  generally  safer  all  round  to  let 
himself  be  dragged  into  this  chase.  The  aunt 
came  along  for  the  same  reasons.  It  was  given 
out  at  home  as  a  trip  round  the  world  of  the 
usual  kind. 

Renouard  had  risen  and  remained  standing 
with  his  heart  beating,  and  strangely  affected  by 
this  tale,  robbed  as  it  was  of  all  glamour  by  the 
prosaic  personality  of  the  narrator.  The  Editor 
added:  "I've  been  asked  to  help  in  the  search — 
you  know." 

Renouard  muttered  something  about  an 
appointment  and  went  out  into  the  street.  His 
inborn  sanity  could  not  defend  him  from  a  misty 
creeping  jealousy.  He  thought  that  obviously 
no  man  of  that  sort  could  be  worthy  of  such  a 
woman's  devoted  fidelity.  Renouard,  however, 
had  lived  long  enough  to  reflect  that  a  man's 
activities,  his  views,  and  even  his  ideas  may  be 
very  inferior  to  his  character;  and  moved  by  a 
delicate  consideration  for  that  splendid  girl  he 
tried  to  think  out  for  the  man  a  character  of 
inward  excellence  and  outward  gifts — some 
extraordinary  seduction.  But  in  vain.  Fresh 
from  months  of  solitude  and  from  days  at  sea, 
her  splendour  presented  itself  to  him  absolutely 
unconquerable  in  its  perfection,  unless  by  her 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  31 

own  folly.  It  was  easier  to  suspect  her  of  this 
than  to  imagine  in  the  man  qualities  which  would 
be  worthy  of  her.  Easier  and  less  degrading.  Be- 
cause folly  may  be  generous — could  be  nothing 
else  but  generosity  in  her;  whereas  to  imagine 
her  subjugated  by  something  common  was  in- 
tolerable. 

Because  of  the  force  of  the  physical  impression 
he  had  received  from  her  personality  (and  such 
impressions  are  the  real  origins  of  the  deepest 
movements  of  our  soul)  this  conception  of  her 
was  even  inconceivable.  But  no  Prince  Charm- 
ing has  ever  lived  out  of  a  fairy  tale.  He  doesn't 
walk  the  worlds  of  Fashion  and  Finance — and 
with  a  stumbling  gait  at  that.  Generosity.  Yes. 
It  was  her  generosity.  But  this  generosity  was 
altogether  regal  in  its  splendour,  almost  absurd 
in  its  lavishness — or,  perhaps,  divine. 

In  the  evening,  on  board  his  schooner,  sitting 
on  the  rail,  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast  and  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  deck,  he  let  the  darkness  catch 
him  unawares  in  the  midst  of  a  meditation  on  the 
mechanism  of  sentiment  and  the  springs  of 
passion.  And  all  the  time  he  had  an  abiding 
consciousness  of  her  bodily  presence.  The  effect 
on  his  senses  had  been  so  penetrating  that  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  rousing  up  suddenly,  wide- 
eyed  in  the  darkness  of  his  cabin,  he  did  not  create 


32  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

a  faint  mental  vision  of  her  person  for  himself, 
but,  more  intimately  affected,  he  scented  dis- 
tinctly the  faint  perfume  she  used,  and  could 
almost  have  sworn  that  he  had  been  awakened 
by  the  soft  rustle  of  her  dress.  He  even  sat  up 
listening  in  the  dark  for  a  time,  then  sighed  and 
lay  down  again,  not  agitated  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, oppressed  by  the  sensation  of  something 
that  had  happened  to  him  and  could  not  be 
undone. 


m 


In  the  afternoon  he  lounged  into  the  editorial 
office,  carrying  with  affected  nonchalance  that 
weight  of  the  irremediable  he  had  felt  laid  on 
him  suddenly  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night — 
that  consciousness  of  something  that  could  no 
longer  be  helped.  His  patronising  friend  in- 
formed him  at  once  that  he  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  Moorsom  party  last  night. 
At  the  Dunster's,  of  course.     Dinner. 

"Very  quiet.  Nobody  there.  It  was  much 
better  for  the  business.     I  say     .     .     ." 

Renouard,  his  hand  grasping  the  back  of  a 
chair,  stared  down  at  him  dumbly. 

"Phew!  That's  a  stunning  girl.  .  .  .  Why 
do  you  want  to  sit  on  that  chair ?  It's  uncomfort- 
able!" 

"I  wasn't  going  to  sit  on  it."  Renouard 
walked  slowly  to  the  window,  glad  to  find  in 
himself  enough  self-control  to  let  go  the  chair  in- 
stead of  raising  it  on  high  and  bringing  it  down 
on  the  Editor's  head. 

"Willie  kept  on  gazing  at  her  with  tears  in  his 

33 


34  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

boiled  eyes.  You  should  have  seen  him  bending 
sentimentally  over  her  at  dinner." 

*' Don't,"  said  Renouard  in  such  an  anguished 
tone  that  the  Editor  turned  right  round  to  look 
at  his  back. 

*' You  push  your  dislike  of  young  Dunster  too 
far.  It's  positively  morbid,"  he  disapproved 
mildly.  "We  can't  be  all  beautiful  after  thirty. 
.  .  .  I  talked  a  little,  about  you  mostly,  to 
the  professor.  He  appeared  to  be  interested  in 
the  silk  plant — if  only  as  a  change  from  the  great 
subject.  Miss  Moorsom  didn't  seem  to  mind 
when  I  confessed  to  her  that  I  had  taken  you 
into  the  confidence  of  the  thing.  Our  Willie 
approved  too.  Old  Dunster  with  his  white 
beard  seemed  to  give  me  his  blessing.  All  those 
people  have  a  great  opinion  of  you,  simply  be- 
cause I  told  them  that  you've  led  every  sort  of 
life  one  can  think  of  before  you  got  struck  on 
exploration.  They  want  you  to  make  sugges- 
tions. What  do  you  think  'Master  Arthur'  is 
likely  to  have  taken  to.^^ " 

"Something  easy,"  muttered  Renouard  with- 
out unclenching  his  teeth. 

"Hunting  man.  Athlete.  Don't  be  hard  on 
the  chap.  He  may  be  riding  boundaries,  or 
droving  cattle,  or  humping  his  swag  about  the 
back-blocks  away  to  the  devil — somewhere.    He 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  35 

may  be  even  prospecting  at  the  back  of  beyond 
— this  very  moment." 

"  Or  lying  dead  drunk  in  a  roadside  pub.  It's 
late  enough  in  the  day  for  that." 

The  Editor  looked  up  instinctively.  The 
clock  was  pointing  at  a  quarter  to  five.  "Yes, 
it  is,"  he  admitted.  "But  it  needn't  be.  And 
he  may  have  lit  out  mto  the  Western  Pacific  all 
of  a  sudden — say  in  a  trading  schooner.  Though 
I  really  don't  see  in  what  capacity.     Still    .    .    ." 

"Or  he  may  be  passing  at  this  very  moment 
under  this  very  window." 

"Not  he  .  .  .  and  I  wish  you  would  get 
away  from  it  to  where  one  can  see  your  face.  I 
hate  talking  to  a  man's  back.  You  stand  there 
like  a  hermit  on  a  sea-shore  growling  to  yourself. 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Geoffrey,  you  don't  like 
mankind." 

"I  don't  make  my  living  by  talking  about 
mankind's  affairs,"  Renouard  defended  himself. 
But  he  came  away  obediently  and  sat  down  in 
the  arm-chair.  "  How  can  you  be  so  certain  that 
your  man  isn't  down  there  in  the  street.^"  he 
asked.  "  It's  neither  more  nor  less  probable  than 
every  single  one  of  your  other  suppositions." 

Placated  by  Renouard's  docility  the  Editor 
gazed  at  him  for  a  while.  "Aha!  I'll  tell  you 
how.     Learn  then  that  we  have  begun  the  cam- 


36  THE  PLANTER  OF  IVIALATA 

paign.  We  have  telegraphed  his  description  to 
the  pohce  of  every  township  up  and  down  the 
land.  And  what's  more  we've  ascertained  defi- 
nitely that  he  hasn't  been  in  this  town  for  the 
last  three  months  at  least.  How  much  longer 
he's  been  away  we  can't  tell." 

"That's  very  curious." 

"It's  very  simple.  Miss  Moorsom  wrote  to 
him,  to  the  post  oflBce  here,  directly  she  returned 
to  London  after  her  excursion  into  the  country 
to  see  the  old  butler.  Well — her  letter  is  still 
lying  there.  It  has  not  been  called  for.  Ergo, 
this  town  is  not  his  usual  abode.  Personally,  I 
never  thought  it  was.  But  he  cannot  fail  to  turn 
up  some  time  or  other.  Our  main  hope  lies  just 
in  the  certitude  that  he  must  come  to  town 
sooner  or  later.  Remember  he  doesn't  know 
that  the  butler  is  dead,  and  he  will  want  to 
inquire  for  a  letter.  Well,  he'll  find  a  note  from 
Miss  Moorsom." 

Renouard,  silent,  thought  that  it  was  likely 
enough.  His  profound  distaste  for  this  conver- 
sation was  betrayed  by  an  air  of  weariness  dark- 
ening his  energetic  sun-tanned  features,  and  by 
the  augmented  dreaminess  of  his  eyes.  The 
Editor  noted  it  as  a  further  proof  of  that  im- 
moral detachment  from  mankind,  of  that  callous- 
ness of  sentiment  fostered  by  the  unhealthy 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  37 

conditions  of  solitude — according  to  his  own 
favourite  theory.  Aloud  he  observed  that  as 
long  as  a  man  had  not  given  up  correspondence 
he  could  not  be  looked  upon  as  lost.  Fugitive 
criminals  had  been  tracked  in  that  way  by 
justice,  he  reminded  his  friend;  then  suddenly 
changed  the  bearing  of  the  subject  somewhat  by 
asking  if  Renouard  had  heard  from  his  people 
lately,  and  if  every  member  of  his  large  tribe 
was  well  and  happy. 

"Yes,  thanks." 

The  tone  was  curt,  as  if  repelling  a  liberty. 
Renouard  did  not  like  being  asked  about  his 
people,  for  whom  he  had  a  profound  and  re- 
morseful affection.  He  had  not  seen  a  single 
human  being  to  whom  he  was  related,  for  many 
years,  and  he  was  extremely  different  from  them 
all. 

On  the  very  morning  of  his  arrival  from  his 
island  he  had  gone  to  a  set  of  pigeon-holes  in 
Willie  Dunster's  outer  office  and  had  taken  out 
from  a  compartment  labelled  "Malata"  a  very 
small  accumulation  of  envelopes,  a  few  ad- 
dressed to  himself,  and  one  addressed  to  his 
assistant,  all  to  the  care  of  the  firm,  W.  Dunster 
and  Co.  As  opportunity  offered,  the  firm  used 
to  send  them  on  to  Malata  either  by  a  man-of- 
war  schooner  going  on  a  cruise,  or  by  some  trad- 


38  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

ing  craft  proceeding  that  way.  But  for  the  last 
four  months  there  had  been  no  opportunity. 

"You  going  to  stay  here  some  time.^^"  asked 
the  Editor,  after  a  longish  silence. 

Renouard,  perfunctorily,  did  see  no  reason  why 
he  should  make  a  long  stay. 

"For  health,  for  your  mental  health,  my  boy," 
rejoined  the  newspaper  man.  "To  get  used  to 
human  faces  so  that  they  don't  hit  you  in  the  eye 
so  hard  when  you  walk  about  the  streets.  To 
get  friendly  with  your  kind.  I  suppose  that 
assistant  of  yours  can  be  trusted  to  look  after 
things?" 

"There's  the  half-caste  too.  The  Portuguese. 
He  knows  what's  to  be  done." 

"Aha!"  The  Editor  looked  sharply  at  his 
friend.     "Wliat's  his  name?" 

"Who's  name?" 

"The  assistant's  you  picked  up  on  the  sly  be- 
hind my  back." 

Renouard  made  a  slight  movement  of  im- 
patience. 

"I  met  him  unexpectedly  one  evening.  I 
thought  he  would  do  as  well  as  another.  He 
had  come  from  up  country  and  didn't  seem 
happy  in  a  town.  He  told  me  his  name  was 
Walter.  I  did  not  ask  him  for  proofs,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  think  you  get  on  very  well  with  him." 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  39 

"Why?     What  makes  you  think  so." 

"I  don't  know.  Something  reluctant  in  your 
manner  when  he's  in  question." 

"Really.  My  manner!  I  don't  think  he's  a 
great  subject  for  conversation,  perhaps.  Why 
not  drop  him?" 

"Of  course!  You  wouldn't  confess  to  a  mis- 
take. Not  you.  Nevertheless  I  have  my  sus- 
picions about  it." 

Renouard  got  up  to  go,  but  hesitated,  looking 
down  at  the  seated  Editor. 

"How  funny,"  he  said  at  last  with  the  utmost 
seriousness,  and  was  making  for  the  door,  when 
the  voice  of  his  friend  stopped  him. 

"You  know  what  has  been  said  of  you?  That 
you  couldn't  get  on  with  anybody  you  couldn't 
kick.  Now,  confess — is  there  any  truth  in  the 
soft  impeachment?" 

"No,"  said  Renouard.  "Did  you  print  that 
in  your  paper." 

"No.  I  didn't  quite  believe  it.  But  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  believe.  I  believe  that  when 
your  heart  is  set  on  some  object  you  are  a  man 
that  doesn't  count  the  cost  to  yourself  or  others. 
And  this  shall  get  printed  some  day." 

"Obituary  notice?"  Renouard  dropped  negli- 
gently. 

"  Certain — some  day." 


40  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

"Do  you  then  regard  yourself  as  immortal?'* 

"No,  my  boy.  I  am  not  immortal.  But  the 
voice  of  the  press  goes  on  for  ever. 
And  it  will  say  that  this  was  the  secret  of 
your  great  success  in  a  task  where  better 
men  than  you — meaning  no  offence — did  fail 
repeatedly." 

"Success,"  muttered  Renouard,  pulling-to  the 
oflSce  door  after  him  with  considerable  energy. 
And  the  letters  of  the  word  Private  like  a  row 
of  white  eyes  seemed  to  stare  after  his  back 
sinking  down  the  staircase  of  that  temple  of 
publicity. 

Renouard  had  no  doubt  that  all  the  means  of 
publicity  would  be  put  at  the  service  of  love  and 
used  for  the  discovery  of  the  loved  man.  He 
did  not  wish  him  dead.  He  did  not  wish  him 
any  harm.  We  are  all  equipped  with  a  fund  of 
humanity  which  is  not  exhausted  without  many 
and  repeated  provocations — and  this  man  had 
done  him  no  evil.  But  before  Renouard  had  left 
old  Dunster's  house,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  call 
he  made  there  that  very  afternoon,  he  had  dis- 
covered in  himself  the  desire  that  the  search 
might  last  long.  He  never  really  flattered  him- 
self that  it  might  fail.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
there  was  no  other  course  in  this  world  for  him- 
self, for  all  mankind,  but  resignation.     And  he 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  41 

could  not  help  thinking  that  Professor  Moorsom 
had  arrived  at  the  same  conclusion  too. 

Professor  Moorsom,  slight  frame  of  middle 
height,  a  thoughtful  keen  head  under  the  thick 
wavy  hair,  veiled  dark  eyes  under  straight  eye- 
brows, and  with  an  inward  gaze  w^hich  when  dis- 
engaged and  arriving  at  one  seemed  to  issue 
from  an  obscure  dream  of  books,  from  the  limbo 
of  meditation,  showed  himself  extremely  gracious 
to  him.  Renouard  guessed  in  him  a  man  whom 
an  incurable  habit  of  investigation  and  analysis 
had  made  gentle  and  indulgent;  inapt  for  action, 
and  more  sensitive  to  the  thoughts  than  to  the 
events  of  existence.  Withal  not  crushed,  sub- 
ironic  without  a  trace  of  acidity,  and  with  a 
simple  manner  which  put  people  at  ease  quickly. 
They  had  a  long  conversation  on  the  terrace 
commanding  an  extended  view  of  the  town  and 
the  harbour. 

The  splendid  immobility  of  the  bay  resting 
under  his  gaze,  with  its  grey  spurs  and  shining 
indentations,  helped  Renouard  to  regain  his  self- 
possession,  which  he  had  felt  shaken,  in  coming 
out  on  the  terrace,  into  the  setting  of  the  most 
powerful  emotion  of  his  life,  when  he  had  sat 
within  a  foot  of  Miss  Moorsom  with  fire  in  his 
breast,  a  humming  in  his  ears,  and  in  a  complete 
disorder  of  his  mind.    There  was  the  very  garden 


42  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

seat  on  which  he  had  been  enveloped  in  the 
radiant  spell.  And  presently  he  was  sitting  on 
it  again  with  the  professor  talking  of  her.  Near 
by  the  patriarchal  Dunster  leaned  forward  in  a 
wicker  arm-chair,  benign  and  a  little  deaf,  his 
big  hand  to  his  ear  with  the  innocent  eagerness 
of  his  advanced  age  remembering  the  fires  of  life. 

It  was  with  a  sort  of  apprehension  that  Re- 
nouard  looked  forward  to  seeing  Miss  Moorsom. 
And  strangely  enough  it  resembled  the  state  of 
mind  of  a  man  who  fears  disenchantment  more 
than  sortilege.  But  he  need  not  have  been 
afraid.  Directly  he  saw  her  in  a  distance  at  the 
other  end  of  the  terrace  he  shuddered  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair.  With  her  approach  the  power  of 
speech  left  him  for  a  time.  Mrs.  Dunster  and 
her  aunt  were  accompanying  her.  All  these 
people  sat  down;  it  was  an  intimate  circle  into 
which  Renouard  felt  himself  cordially  admitted; 
and  the  talk  was  of  the  great  search  which 
occupied  all  their  minds.  Discretion  was  ex- 
pected by  these  people,  but  of  reticence  as  to  the 
object  of  the  journey  there  could  be  no  question. 
Nothing  but  ways  and  means  and  arrangements 
could  be  talked  about. 

By  fixing  his  eyes  obstinately  on  the  ground, 
which  gave  him  an  air  of  reflective  sadness, 
Renouard  managed  to  recover  his  seK-possqs- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  43 

sion.  He  used  it  to  keep  his  voice  in  a  low  key 
and  to  measure  his  words  on  the  great  subject. 
And  he  took  care  with  a  great  inward  effort  to 
make  them  reasonable  without  giving  them  a 
discouraging  complexion.  For  he  did  not  want 
the  quest  to  be  given  up,  since  it  would  mean  her 
going  away  with  her  two  attendant  grey-heads 
to  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

He  was  asked  to  come  again,  to  come  often 
and  take  part  in  the  counsels  of  all  these  people 
captivated  by  the  sentimental  enterprise  of  a 
declared  love.  On  taking  Miss  Moorsom's  hand 
he  looked  up,  would  have  liked  to  say  something, 
but  found  himself  voiceless,  with  his  lips  sud- 
denly sealed.  She  returned  the  pressure  of  his 
fingers,  and  he  left  her  with  her  eyes  vaguely 
staring  beyond  him,  an  air  of  listening  for  an 
expected  sound,  and  the  faintest  possible  smile 
on  her  lips — a  smile  not  for  him,  evidently,  but 
the  reflection  of  some  deep  and  inscrutable 
thought. 


IV 


He  went  on  board  his  schooner.  She  lay  white, 
and  as  if  suspended,  in  the  crepuscular  atmos- 
phere of  sunset  mingling  with  the  ashy  gleam  of 
the  vast  anchorage.  He  tried  to  keep  his 
thoughts  as  sober,  as  reasonable,  as  measured  as 
his  words  had  been,  lest  they  should  get  away 
from  him  and  cause  some  sort  of  moral  disaster. 
What  he  was  afraid  of  in  the  coming  night  was 
sleeplessness  and  the  endless  strain  of  that 
wearisome  task.  It  had  to  be  faced  however. 
He  lay  on  his  back,  sighing  profoundly  in  the 
dark,  and  suddenly  beheld  his  very  own  self, 
carrying  a  small  bizarre  lamp,  reflected  in  a  long 
mirror  inside  a  room  in  an  empty  and  unfur- 
nished palace.  In  this  startling  image  of  himself 
he  recognised  somebody  he  had  to  follow — the 
frightened  guide  of  his  dream.  He  traversed 
endless  galleries,  no  end  of  lofty  halls,  innumer- 
able doors.  He  lost  himself  utterly — he  found  his 
way  again.  Room  succeeded  room.  At  last 
the  lamp  went  out,  and  he  stumbled  against  some 
object  which,  when  he  stooped  for  it,  he  found  to 

44 


THE  PLANTER  OF  IVIALATA  45 

be  very  cold  and  heavy  to  lift.  The  sickly  white 
light  of  dawii  showed  him  the  head  of  a  statue. 
Its  marble  hair  was  done  in  the  bold  lines  of  a 
helmet,  on  its  lips  the  chisel  had  left  a  faint 
smile,  and  it  resembled  Miss  Moorsom.  \Miile 
he  was  staring  at  it  fixedly,  the  head  began  to 
grow  light  in  his  fingers,  to  diminish  and  crumble 
to  pieces,  and  at  last  turned  into  a  handful  of 
dust,  which  was  blown  away  by  a  puff  of  wind  so 
chilly  that  he  woke  up  with  a  desperate  shiver 
and  leaped  headlong  out  of  his  bed-place.  The 
day  had  really  come.  He  sat  down  by  the  cabin 
table,  and  taking  his  head  between  his  hands,  did 
not  stir  for  a  very  long  time. 

Very  quiet,  he  set  himself  to  review  this  dream. 
The  lamp,   of  course,  he  connected  with  Jh^ 
search  for  a  man.     But  on  closer  examination  he  j 
perceived  that  the  reflection  of  himself  in  the 
mirror  was  not  really  the  true  Renouard,  butj 
somebody  else  whose  face  he  could  not  remember  J 
In  the  deserted  palace  he  recognised  a  sinister 
adaptation  by  his  brain  of  the  long  corridors 
with  many  doors,  in  the  great  building  in  which 
his  friend's  newspaper  was  lodged  on  the  first 
floor.     The  marble  head  with  Miss  Moorsom's 
face!      Well!      What  other  face  could  he  have 
dreamed  of.^       And  her  complexion  was  fairer 
than  Parian  marble,  than  the  heads  of  angels. 


46  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

The  wind  at  the  end  was  the  morning  breeze 
entering  through  the  open  porthole  and  touching 
his  face  before  the  schooner  could  swing  to  the 
chilly  gust. 

Yes !  And  all  this  rational  explanation  of  the 
fantastic  made  it  only  more  mysterious  and 
weird.  There  was  something  daemonic  in  that 
dream.  It  was  one  of  those  experiences  which 
throw  a  man  out  of  conformity  with  the  estab- 
lished order  of  his  kind  and  make  him  a  creature 
of  obscure  suggestions. 

Henceforth,  without  ever  trying  to  resist,  he 
went  every  afternoon  to  the  house  where  she 
lived.  He  went  there  as  passively  as  if  in  a 
dream.  He  could  never  make  out  how  he  had 
attained  the  footing  of  intimacy  in  the  Dunster 
mansion  above  the  bay — whether  on  the  ground 
of  personal  merit  or  as  the  pioneer  of  the  vege- 
table silk  industry.  It  must  have  been  the  last, 
because  he  remembered  distinctly,  as  distinctly 
as  in  a  dream,  hearing  old  Dunster  once  telling 
him  that  his  next  public  task  would  be  a  careful 
survey  of  the  Northern  Districts  to  discover 
tracts  suitable  for  the  cultivation  of  the  silk 
plant.  The  old  man  wagged  his  beard  at  him 
sagely.     It  was  indeed  as  absurd  as  a  dream. 

Willie  of  course  would  be  there  in  the  evening. 
But  he  was  more  of  a  figure  out  of  a  nightmare. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  47 

hovering  about  the  circle  of  chairs  in  his  dress- 
clothes  like  a  gigantic,  repulsive,  and  sentimen- 
tal bat.  "  Do  away  with  the  beastly  cocoons  all 
over  the  world,"  he  buzzed  in  his  blurred,  water- 
logged voice.  He  affected  a  great  horror  of 
insects  of  all  kinds.  One  evening  he  appeared 
with  a  red  flower  in  his  button-hole.  Nothing 
could  have  been  more  disgustingly  fantastic. 
And  he  would  also  say  to  Renouard:  "You  may 
yet  change  the  history  of  our  country.  For 
economic  conditions  do  shape  the  history  of 
nations.  Eh.^  What?"  And  he  would  turn  to 
Miss  Moorsom  for  approval,  lowering  protect- 
ingly  his  spatulous  nose  and  looking  up  with 
feeling  from  under  his  absurd  eyebrows,  which 
grew  thin,  in  the  manner  of  canebrakes,  out  of 
his  spongy  skin.  For  this  large,  bilious  creature 
was  an  economist  and  a  sentimentalist,  facile  to 
tears,  and  a  member  of  the  Cobden  Club. 

In  order  to  see  as  little  of  him  as  possible  Re- 
nouard began  coming  earlier  so  as  to  get  away 
before  his  arrival,  without  curtailing  too  much 
the  hours  of  secret  contemplation  for  which  he 
lived.  He  had  given  up  trying  to  deceive  him- 
self. His  resignation  was  without  bounds.  He 
accepted  the  immense  misfortune  of  being  in 
love  with  a  woman  who  was  in  search  of  another 
man  only  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms.     With 


48  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

such  desperate  precision  he  defined  in  his 
thoughts  the  situation,  the  consciousness  of  which 
traversed  Hke  a  sharp  arrow  the  sudden  silences  of 
general  conversation.  The  only  thought  before 
which  he  quailed  was  the  thought  that  this  could 
not  last;  that  it  must  come  to  an  end.  He 
feared  it  instinctively  as  a  sick  man  may  fear 
death.  For  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  must  be 
the  death  of  him  followed  by  a  lightless,  bottom- 
less pit.  But  his  resignation  was  not  spared  the 
torments  of  jealousy:  the  cruel,  insensate,  poign- 
ant, and  imbecile  jealousy,  when  it  seems  that 
a  woman  betrays  us  simply  by  this  that  she 
exists,  that  she  breathes — and  when  the  deep 
movements  of  her  nerves  or  her  soul  become  a 
matter  of  distracting  suspicion,  of  killing  doubt, 
of  mortal  anxiety. 

In  the  peculiar  condition  of  their  sojourn  Miss 
Moorsom  went  out  very  little.  She  accepted 
this  seclusion  at  the  Dunster's  mansion  as  in 
a  hermitage,  and  lived  there,  watched  over  by  a 
group  of  old  people,  with  lofty  endurance  of  a 
condescending  and  strong-headed  goddess.  It 
was  impossible  to  say  if  she  suffered  from  any- 
thing in  the  world,  and  whether  this  was  the  in- 
sensibility of  a  great  passion  concentrated  on 
itself,  or  a  perfect  restraint  of  manner,  or  the 
indifference  of  superiority  so  complete  as  to  be 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  49 

sufficient  to  itself.  But  it  was  visible  to  Re- 
nouard  that  she  took  some  pleasure  in  talking  to 
him  at  times.  Was  it  because  he  was  the  only 
person  near  her  age?  Was  this,  then,  the  secret 
of  his  admission  to  the  circle.^ 

He  admired  her  voice  as  well  poised  as  her 
movements,  as  her  attitudes.  He  himself  had 
always  been  a  man  of  tranquil  tones.  But  the 
power  of  fascination  had  torn  him  out  of  his  very 
nature  so  completely  that  to  preserve  his  habit- 
ual calmness  from  going  to  pieces  had  become  a 
terrible  effort.  He  used  to  go  from  her  on  board 
the  schooner  exhausted,  broken,  shaken  up,  as 
though  he  had  been  put  to  the  most  exquisite 
torture.  When  he  saw  her  approaching  he  al- 
ways had  a  moment  of  hallucination.  She  was  a 
misty  and  fair  creature,  fitted  for  invisible  music, 
for  the  shadows  of  love,  for  the  murmurs  of 
waters.  After  a  time  (he  could  not  be  always 
staring  at  the  ground)  he  would  summon  up  all 
his  resolution  and  look  at  her.  There  was  a 
sparkle  in  the  clear  obscurity  of  her  eyes;  and 
when  she  turned  them  on  him  they  seemed  to 
give  a  new  meaning  to  life.  He  would  say  to 
himself  that  another  man  would  have  found  long 
before  the  happy  release  of  madness,  his  wits 
burnt  to  cinders  in  that  radiance.  But  no  such 
luck  for  him.     His  wits  had  come  unscathed 


50  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

through  the  furnaces  of  hot  suns,  of  blazing 
deserts,  of  flaming  angers  against  the  weaknesses 
of  men  and  the  obstinate  cruelties  of  hostile 
nature. 

Being  sane  he  had  to  be  constantly  on  his 
guard  against  falling  into  adoring  silences  or 
breaking  out  into  wild  speeches.  He  had  to 
keep  watch  on  his  eyes,  his  limbs,  on  the  muscles 
of  his  face.  Their  conversations  were  such  as 
they  could  be  between  these  two  people:  she  a 
young  lady  fresh  from  the  thick  twilight  of  four 
million  people  and  the  artificiality  of  several 
London  seasons ;  he  the  man  of  definite  conquer- 
ing tasks,  the  familiar  of  wide  horizons,  and  in 
his  very  repose  holding  aloof  from  these  agglom- 
erations of  units  in  which  one  loses  one's  im- 
portance even  to  oneself.  They  had  no  com- 
mon conversational  small  change.  They  had  to 
use  the  great  pieces  of  general  ideas,  but  they 
exchanged  them  trivially.  It  was  no  serious 
commerce.  Perhaps  she  had  not  much  of  that 
coin.  Nothing  significant  came  from  her.  It 
could  not  be  said  that  she  had  received  from  the 
contacts  of  the  external  world  impressions  of  a 
personal  kind,  different  from  other  women. 
What  was  ravishing  in  her  was  her  quietness  and, 
in  her  grave  attitudes,  the  unfailing  brilhance  of 
her  femininity.     He  did  not  know  what  there 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  51 

was  under  that  ivory  forehead  so  splendidly 
shaped,  so  gloriously  crowned.  He  could  not 
tell  what  were  her  thoughts,  her  feelings.  Her 
replies  were  reflective,  always  preceded  by  a  short 
silence,  while  he  hung  on  her  lips  anxiously.  He 
felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  mysterious  being 
in  whom  spoke  an  unknown  voice,  like  the  voice 
of  oracles,  bringing  everlasting  unrest  to  the 
heart. 

He  was  thankful  enough  to  sit  in  silence  with 
secretly  clenched  teeth,  devoured  by  jealousy — 
and  nobody  could  have  guessed  that  his  quiet 
deferential  bearing  to  all  these  grey-heads  was 
the  supreme  effort  of  stoicism,  that  the  man  was 
engaged  in  keeping  a  sinister  watch  on  his  tor- 
tures lest  his  strength  should  fail  him.     As  be-^; 
fore,  when  grappling  with  other  forces  of  nature,  ^^ 
he  could  find  in  himself  all  sorts  of  courage  \ 
except  the  courage  to  run  away. 

It  was  perhaps  from  the  lack  of  subjects  they 
could  have  in  common  that  Miss  Moorsom  made 
him  so  often  speak  of  his  own  life.  He  did  not 
shrink  from  talking  about  himself,  for  he  was 
free  from  that  exacerbated,  timid  vanity  which 
seals  so  many  vain-glorious  lips.  He  talked  to 
her  in  his  restrained  voice,  gazing  at  the  tip  of 
her  shoe,  and  thinking  that  the  time  was  bound 
to  come  soon  when  her  very  inattention  would 


52  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

get  weary  of  him.  And  indeed  on  stealing  a 
glance  he  would  see  her  dazzling  and  perfect,  her 
eyes  vague,  staring  in  mournful  immobility, 
with  a  drooping  head  that  made  him  think  of  a 
^.-tragic  Venus  arising  before  him,  not  from  the 
/  foam  of  the  sea,  but  from  a  distant,  still  more 
formless,  mysterious,  and  potent  immensity  of 
mankind. 


^ 


c^' 


r^  \ 


\/r' 


One  afternoon  Henouard  stepping  out  on  the 
terrace  found  nobody. there.  It  was  for  him,  at 
the  same  time,  a  melancholy  disappointment  and 
a  poignant  relief. 

The  heat  was  great,  the  air  was  still,  all  the 
long  windows  of  the  house  stood  wide  open.  At 
the  further  end,  grouped  round  a  lady's  work- 
table,  several  chairs  disposed  sociably  suggested 
invisible  occupants,  a  company  of  conversing 
shades.  Renouard  looked  toward  them  with  a 
sort  of  dread.  A  most  elusive,  faint  sound  of 
ghostly  talk  issuing  from  one  of  the  rooms  added 
to  the  illusion  and  stopped  his  already  hesitating 
footsteps.  He  leaned  over  the  balustrade  of  stone 
near  a  squat  vase  holding  a  tropical  plant  of  a 
bizarre  shape.  Professor  Moorsom  coming  up 
from  the  garden  with  a  book  under  his  arm  and 
a  white  parasol  held  over  his  bare  head,  found 
him  there  and,  closing  the  parasol,  leaned  over 
by  his  side  with  a  remark  on  the  increasing  heat  of 
the  season.  Renouard  assented  and  changed  his 
position  a  little;  the  other,  after  a  short  silence, 

53 


54  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

administered  unexpectedly  a  question  which, 
like  the  blow  of  a  club  on  the  head,  deprived  Re- 
nouard  of  the  power  of  speech  and  even  thought, 
but,  more  cruel,  left  him  quivering  with  appre- 
hension, not  of  death  but  of  everlasting  torment. 
Yet  the  words  were  extremely  simple. 

"Something  will  have  to  be  done  soon.  We 
can't  remain  in  a  state  of  suspended  expectation 
for  ever.  Tell  me  what  do  you  think  of  our 
chances.^" 

Renouard,  speechless,  produced  a  faint  smile. 
The  professor  confessed  in  a  jocular  tone  his  im- 
patience to  complete  the  circuit  of  the  globe  and 
be  done  with  it.  It  was  impossible  to  remain 
quartered  on  the  dear  excellent  Dunsters  for 
an  indefinite  time.  And  then  there  were  the 
lectures  he  had  arranged  to  deliver  in  Paris.  A 
serious  matter. 

That  lectures  by  Professor  Moorsom  were  a 
European  event  and  that  brilliant  audiences 
would  gather  to  hear  them  Renouard  did  not 
know.  All  he  was  aware  of  was  the  shock  of  this 
hint  of  departure.  The  menace  of  separation 
fell  on  his  head  like  a  thunderbolt.  And  he  saw 
the  absurdity  of  his  emotion,  for  hadn't  he  lived 
all  these  days  under  the  very  cloud  .'^  The  pro- 
fessor, his  elbows  spread  out,  looked  down  into 
the  garden  and  went  on  unburdening  his  mind. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  55 

Yes.  The  department  of  sentiment  was  directed 
by  his  daughter,  and  she  had  plenty  of  volun- 
teered moral  support;  but  he  had  to  look  after 
the  practical  side  of  life  without  assistance. 

"I  have  the  less  hesitation  in  speaking  to  you 
about  my  anxiety,  because  I  feel  you  are  friendly 
to  us  and  at  the  same  time  you  are  detached  from 
all  these  sublimities — confound  them." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  murmured  Renouard. 

*'I  mean  that  you  are  capable  of  calm  judg- 
ment. Here  the  atmosphere  is  simply  detestable. 
Everybody  has  knuckled  under  to  sentiment. 
Perhaps  your  deliberate  opinion  could  in- 
fluence    .     .     ." 

"  You  want  Miss  Moorsom  to  give  it  up?  " 

The  professor  turned  to  the  young  man  dis- 
mally. 

"Heaven  only  knows  what  I  want." 

Renouard  leaning  his  back  against  the  balus- 
trade folded  his  arms  on  his  breast,  appeared  to 
meditate  profoundly.  His  face,  shaded  softly 
by  the  broad  brim  of  a  planter's  panama  hat, 
with  the  straight  line  of  the  nose  level  with  the 
forehead,  the  eyes  lost  in  the  depth  of  the  setting, 
and  the  chin  well  forward,  had  such  a  profile  as 
may  be  seen  amongst  the  bronzes  of  classical 
museums,  pure  under  a  crested  helmet — recalled 
vaguely  a  Minerva's  head. 


56  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

"This  is  the  most  troublesome  time  I  ever  had 
in  my  life,"  exclaimed  the  professor  testily. 

"  Surely  the  man  must  be  worth  it,"  muttered 
Renouard  with  a  pang  of  jealousy  traversing  his 
breast  like  a  self-inflicted  stab. 

Whether  enervated  by  the  heat  or  giving  way 
to  pent-up  irritation  the  professor  surrendered 
himself  to  the  mood  of  sincerity. 

"He  began  by  being  a  pleasantly  dull  boy. 
He  developed  into  a  pointlessly  clever  young 
man,  without,  I  suspect,  ever  trying  to  under- 
stand anything.  My  daughter  knew  him  from 
childhood.  I  am  a  busy  man,  and  I  confess 
that  their  engagement  was  a  complete  surprise 
to  me.  I  wish  their  reasons  for  that  step  had 
been  more  naive.  But  simplicity  was  out  of 
fashion  in  their  set.  From  a  worldly  point 
of  view  he  seems  to  have  been  a  mere  baby. 
Of  course,  now,  I  am  assured  that  he  is  the  vic- 
tim of  his  noble  confidence  in  the  rectitude  of 
his  kind.  But  that's  mere  idealising  of  a  sad 
reality.  For  my  part  I  will  tell  you  that  from 
the  very  beginning  I  had  the  gravest  doubts 
of  his  dishonesty.  Unfortunately  my  clever 
daughter  hadn't.  And  now  we  behold  the 
reaction.  No.  To  be  earnestly  dishonest  one 
must  be  really  poor.  This  was  only  a  mani- 
festation of  his  extremely  refined  cleverness. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  57 

The  complicated  simpleton.  He  had  an  awful 
awakening  though." 

In  such  words  did  Professor  Moorsom  give 
his  "young  friend"  to  understand  the  state  of 
his  feelings  toward  the  lost  man.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  the  father  of  Miss  Moorsom  wished 
him  to  remain  lost.  Perhaps  the  unprecedented 
heat  of  the  season  made  him  long  for  the  cool 
spaces  of  the  Pacific,  the  sweep  of  the  ocean's 
free  wind  along  the  promenade  decks,  cumbered 
with  long  chairs,  of  a  ship  steaming  toward 
the  Calif ornian  coast.  To  Renouard  the  philos- 
opher appeared  simply  the  most  treacherous 
of  fathers.  He  was  amazed.  But  he  was  not 
at  the  end  of  his  discoveries. 

*'He  may  be  dead,"  the  professor  murmured. 

"  Why.^  People  don't  die  here  sooner  than  in 
Europe.  If  he  had  gone  to  hide  in  Italy,  for 
instance,  you  wouldn't  think  of  saying  that." 

"Well!  And  suppose  he  has  become  morally 
disintegrated.  You  know  he  was  not  a  strong 
personality,"  the  professor  suggested  moodily. 
"My  daughter's  future  is  in  question  here." 

Renouard  thought  that  the  love  of  such  a 
woman  was  enough  to  pull  any  broken  man 
together — to  drag  a  man  out  of  his  grave.  And 
he  thought  this  with  inward  despair,  which 
kept  him  silent  as  much  almost  as  his  astonish- 


58  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

ment.  At  last  he  managed  to  stammer  out  a 
generous — 

"Oh!     Don't  let  us  even  suppose     .     .     ." 

The  professor  struck  in  with  a  sadder  accent 
than  before — 

"It's  good  to  be  young.  And  then  you  have 
been  a  man  of  action,  and  necessarily  a  believer 
in  success.  But  I  have  been  looking  too  long 
at  life  not  to  distrust  its  surprises.  Age!  Age! 
Here  I  stand  before  you  a  man  full  of  doubts 
and  hesitation — sjpe  lentus,  timidus  futuri.^' 

He  made  a  sign  to  Renouard  not  to  interrupt, 
and  in  a  lowered  voice,  as  if  afraid  of  being  over- 
heard, even  there,  in  the  solitude  of  the  terrace — 

"And  the  worst  is  that  I  am  not  even  sure 
how  far  this  sentimental  pilgrimage  is  genuine. 
Yes.  I  doubt  my  own  child.  It's  true  that 
she's  a  woman     .     .     ." 

Renouard  detected  with  horror  a  tone  of 
resentment,  as  if  the  professor  had  never  for- 
given his  daughter  for  not  dying  instead  of  his 
son.  The  latter  noticed  the  young  man's  stony 
stare. 

"Ah!  you  don't  understand.  Yes,  she's 
clever,  open-minded,  popular,  and — well,  charm- 
ing. But  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have 
moved,  breathed,  existed,  and  even  triumphed 
in   the   mere   smother   and   froth   of   life — the 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  59 

brilliant  froth.  There  thoughts,  sentiments, 
opinions,  feelings,  actions  too,  are  nothing  but 
agitation  in  empty  space — to  amuse  life — a  sort 
of  superior  debauchery,  exciting  and  fatiguing, 
meaning  nothing,  leading  nowhere.  She  is  the 
creature  of  that  circle.  And  I  ask  myself  if  she 
is  obeying  the  uneasiness  of  an  instinct  seeking 
its  satisfaction,  or  is  it  a  revulsion  of  feeling, 
or  is  she  merely  deceiving  her  own  heart  by 
this  dangerous  trifling  with  romantic  images. 
And  everything  is  possible — except  sincerity, 
such  as  only  stark,  struggling  humanity  can 
know.  No  woman  can  stand  that  mode  of  life 
in  which  women  rule,  and  remain  a  perfectly 
genuine,  simple  human  being.  .  .  .  Ah! 
There's  some  people  coming  out." 

He  moved  off  a  pace,  then  turning  his  head: 
"Upon  my  word!  I  would  be  infinitely  obliged 
to  you  if  you  could  throw  a  little  cold  water 
.  .  .  "  and  at  a  vaguely  dismayed  gesture 
of  Renouard,  he  added:  "Don't  be  afraid. 
You  wouldn't  be  putting  out  a  sacred  fire." 

Renouard  could  hardly  find  words  for  a  pro- 
test: *'I  assure  you  that  I  never  talk  with  Miss 
Moorsom — on — on — that.  And  if  you,  her 
father     .     .     ." 

"I  envy  you  your  innocence,"  sighed  the 
professor.     "A  father  is  only  an  everyday  per- 


60  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

son.  Flat.  Stale.  Moreover,  my  child  would 
naturally  mistrust  me.  We  belong  to  the  same 
set.  Whereas  you  carry  with  you  the  prestige 
of  the  unknown.  You  have  proved  yourself 
to  be  a  force." 

Thereupon  the  professor,  followed  by  Renou- 
ard,  joined  the  circle  of  all  the  inmates  of  the 
house  assembled  at  the  other  end  of  the  terrace 
about  a  tea-table:  three  white  heads  and  that 
resplendent  vision  of  woman's  glory,  the  sight 
of  which  had  the  power  to  flutter  his  heart  like 
a  reminder  of  the  mortality  of  his  frame. 

He  avoided  the  seat  by  the  side  of  Miss 
Moorsom.  The  others  were  talking  together 
languidly.  Unnoticed  he  looked  at  that  wo- 
man so  marvellous  that  centuries  seemed  to  lie 
between  them.  He  was  oppressed  and  over- 
come at  the  thought  of  what  she  could  give  to 
some  man  who  really  would  be  a  force!  What 
a  glorious  struggle  with  this  amazon.  What 
noble  burden  for  the  victorious  strength. 

Dear  old  Mrs.  Dunster  was  dispensing  tea, 
looking  from  time  to  time  with  interest  toward 
Miss  Moorsom.  The  aged  statesman  having 
eaten  a  raw  tomato  and  drunk  a  glass  of  milk 
(a  habit  of  his  early  farming  days,  long  before 
politics,  when,  pioneer  of  wheat  growing,  he 
demonstrated  the  possibility  of  raising  crops  on 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  61 

ground  looking  barren  enough  to  discourage  a 
magician),  smoothed  his  white  beard,  and 
struck  Hghtly  Renouard's  knee  with  his  big 
wrinkled  hand. 

"You  had  better  come  back  to-night  and  dine 
with  us  quietly." 

He  liked  this  young  man,  a  pioneer,  too,  in 
more  than  one  direction.  Mrs.  Dunster  added: 
"Do.  It  will  be  very  quiet.  I  don't  even  know 
if  Willie  will  be  home  for  dinner."  Renouard 
murmured  his  thanks,  and  left  the  terrace  to  go 
on  board  the  schooner.  While  lingering  in  the 
drawing-room  doorway  he  heard  the  resonant 
voice  of  old  Dunster  uttering  oracularly — 

"  .  .  .  the  leading  man  here  some  day. 
.     .     .     Like  me." 

Renouard  let  the  thin  summer  portiere  of  the 
doorway  fall  behind  him.  The  voice  of  Pro- 
fessor Moorsom  said — 

"I  am  told  that  he  has  made  an  enemy  of 
almost  every  man  who  had  to  work  with  him." 

"That's  nothing.  He  did  his  work.  .  .  . 
Like  me." 

"He  never  counted  the  cost  they  say.  Not 
even  of  lives." 

Renouard  understood  that  they  were  talking 
of  him.  Before  he  could  move  away,  Mr^. 
Dunster  struck  in  placidly — 


62  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

"Don't  let  yourself  be  shocked  by  the  tales 
you  may  hear  of  him,  my  dear.  Most  of  it  is 
envy." 

Then  he  heard  Miss  Moorsom's  voice  replying 
to  the  old  lady — 

"Oh!  I  am  not  easily  deceived.  I  think  I 
may  say  I  have  an  instinct  for  truth." 

He  hastened  away  from  that  house  with  his 
heart  full  of  dread. 


VI 


On  board  the  schooner,  lying  on  the  settee  on  his 
back  with  the  knuckles  of  his  hands  pressed  over 
his  eyes,  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  not 
return  to  that  house  for  dinner — that  he  would 
never  go  back  there  any  more.  He  made  up  his 
mind  some  twenty  times.  The  knowledge  that 
he  had  only  to  go  up  on  the  quarter  deck,  utter 
quietly  the  words:  "Man  the  windlass,"  and 
that  the  schooner  springing  into  life  would  run  a 
hundred  miles  out  to  sea  before  sunrise,  deceived 
his  struggling  will.  Nothing  easier!  Yet,  in 
the  end,  this  young  man,  almost  ill-famed  for 
his  ruthless  daring,  the  inflexible  leader  of  two 
tragically  successful  expeditions,  shrank  from 
that  act  of  savage  energy,  and  began,  instead, 
to  hunt  for  excuses. 

No!  It  was  not  for  him  to  run  away  like  an 
incurable  who  cuts  his  throat.  He  finished 
dressing  and  looked  at  his  own  impassive  face 
in  the  saloon  mirror  scornfully.  AMiile  being 
pulled  on  shore  in  the  gig,  he  remembered  sud- 
denly the  wild  beauty  of  a  waterfall  seen  when 


64  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

hardly  more  than  a  boy,  years  ago,  in  Menado. 
There  was  a  legend  of  a  governor-general  of  the 
Dutch  East  Indies,  on  official  tour,  committing 
suicide  on  that  spot  by  leaping  into  the  chasm. 
It  was  supposed  that  a  painful  disease  had  made 
him  weary  of  life.  But  was  there  ever  a  visita- 
tion like  his  own,  at  the  same  time  binding  one 
to  life  and  so  cruelly  mortal ! 

The  dinner  was  indeed  quiet.  Willie,  given 
half  an  hour's  grace,  failed  to  turn  up,  and  his 
chair  remained  vacant  by  the  side  of  Miss 
Moorsom.  Renouard  had  the  professor's  sister 
on  his  left,  dressed  in  an  expensive  gown  be- 
coming  her   age.     That   maiden   lady   in   her 

onderful  preservation  reminded  Renouard 
somehow  of  a  wax  flower  under  glass.  There 
were  no  traces  of  the  dust  of  life's  battles  on  her 
anywhere.  She  did  not  like  him  very  much  in 
the  afternoons,  in  his  white  drill  suit  and 
planter's  hat,  which  seemed  to  her  an  unduly 
Bohemian  costume  for  calling  in  a  house  where 
there  were  ladies.  But  in  the  evening,  lithe  and 
elegant  in  his  dress  clothes  and  with  his  pleasant, 
slightly  veiled  voice,  he  always  made  her  con- 
quest afresh.  He  might  have  been  anybody 
distinguished — the  son  of  a  duke.  Falling 
under  that  charm  probably  (and  also  because 
her  brother  had  given  her  a  hint) ,  she  attempted 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  65 

to  open  her  heart  to  Renouard,  who  was  watch- 
ing with  all  the  power  of  his  soul  her  niece  across 
the  table.  She  spoke  to  him  as  frankly  as 
though  that  miserable  mortal  envelope,  emptied 
of  everything  but  hopeless  passion,  were  indeed 
the  son  of  a  duke. 

Inattentive,  he  heard  her  only  in  snatches,  till 
the  final  confidential  burst :  " .  .  .  glad  if  you 
would  express  an  opinion.  Look  at  her,  so 
charming,  such  a  great  favourite,  so  generally 
admired!  It  would  be  too  sad.  We  all  hoped 
she  would  make  a  brilliant  marriage  with  some- 
body very  rich  and  of  high  position,  have  a  house 
in  London  and  in  the  country,  and  entertain  us 
all  splendidly.  She's  so  eminently  fitted  for  it. 
She  has  such  hosts  of  distinguished  friends !  And 
then — this  instead!  .  .  .  My  heart  really 
aches." 

Her  well-bred  if  anxious  whisper  was  covered 
by  the  voice  of  Professor  Moorsom  discoursing 
subtly  down  the  short  length  of  the  dinner  table 
on  the  Impermanency  of  the  Measurable  to  his 
venerable  disciple.  It  might  have  been  a 
chapter  in  a  new  and  popular  book  of  Moorsom- 
ian  philosophy.  Patriarchal  and  delighted,  old 
Dunster  leaned  forward  a  little,  his  eyes  shining 
youthfully,  two  spots  of  colour  at  the  roots  of  his 
white  beard;  and  Renouard,  glancing  at  the 


66  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

senile  excitement,  recalled  the  words  heard  on 
those  subtle  lips,  adopted  their  scorn  for  his  own, 
saw  their  truth  before  this  man  ready  to  be 
amused  by  the  side  of  the  grave.  Yes!  In- 
tellectual debauchery  in  the  froth  of  existence! 
Froth  and  fraud ! 

On  the  same  side  of  the  table  Miss  Moorsom 
never  once  looked  toward  her  father,  all  her 
grace  as  if  frozen,  her  red  lips  compressed,  the 
faintest  rosiness  under  her  dazzling  complexion, 
her  black  eyes  burning  motionless,  and  the  very 
coppery  gleams  of  light  lying  still  on  the  waves 
and  undulation  of  her  hair.  Renouard  fancied 
himself  overturning  the  table,  smashing  crystal 
and  china,  treading  fruit  and  flowers  under  foot, 
seizing  her  in  his  arms,  carrying  her  off  in  a 
tumult  of  shrieks  from  all  these  people,  a  silent 
frightened  mortal,  into  some  profound  retreat  as 
in  the  age  of  Cavern  men.  Suddenly  everybody 
got  up,  and  he  hastened  to  rise  too,  finding  him- 
self out  of  breath  and  quite  unsteady  on  his 
feet. 

On  the  terrace  the  philosopher,  after  lighting 
a  cigar,  slipped  his  hand  condescendingly  under 
his  *'dear  young  friend's"  arm.  Renouard  re- 
garded him  now  with  the  profoundest  mistrust. 
But  the  great  man  seemed  really  to  have  a  liking 
for  his  young  friend — one  of  those  mysterious 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  67 

sympathies,  disregarding  the  differences  of  age 
and  position,  which  in  this  case  might  have  been 
explained  by  the  failure  of  philosophy  to  meet  a 
very  real  worry  of  a  practical  kind. 

After  a  turn  or  two  and  some  casual  talk  the 
professor  said  suddenly:  *'My  late  son  was  in 
your  school — do  you  know?  I  can  imagine  that 
had  he  lived  and  you  had  ever  met  you  would 
have  understood  each  other.  He  too  was  inclined 
to  action." 

He  sighed,  then  shaking  off  the  mournful 
thought  and  with  a  nod  at  the  dusky  part  of  the 
terrace  where  the  dress  of  his  daughter  made  a 
luminous  stain:  "I  really  wish  you  would  drop  in 
that  quarter  a  few  sensible,  discouraging  words." 

Renouard  disengaged  himself  from  that  most 
perfidious  of  men  under  the  pretence  of  astonish- 
ment, and  stepping  back  a  pace — 

"Surely  you  are  making  fun  of  me.  Professor 
Moorsom,"  he  said  with  a  low  laugh,  which  was 
really  a  sound  of  rage. 

"My  dear  young  friend!  It's  no  subject  for 
jokes,  to  me.  .  .  .  You  don't  seem  to  have  any 
notion  of  your  prestige,"  he  added,  walking 
away  toward  the  chairs. 

"Humbug! "  thought  Renouard,  standing  still 
and  looking  after  him.  "And  yet!  And  yet! 
What  if  it  were  true?  " 


68  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

He  advanced  then  toward  Miss  Moorsom. 
Posed  on  the  seat  on  which  they  had  first  spoken 
to  each  other,  it  was  her  turn  to  watch  him 
coming  on.  But  many  of  the  windows  were  not 
lighted  that  evening.  It  was  dark  over  there. 
She  appeared  to  him  luminous  in  her  clear  dress, 
a  figure  without  shape,  a  face  without  features, 
awaiting  his  approach,  till  he  got  quite  near  to 
her,  sat  down,  and  they  had  exchanged  a  few  in- 
significant words.  Gradually  she  came  out  like 
a  magic  painting  of  charm,  fascination,  and 
desire,  glowing  mysteriously  on  the  dark  back- 
ground. Something  imperceptible  in  the  lines 
of  her  attitude,  in  the  modulations  of  her  voice, 
seemed  to  soften  that  suggestion  of  calm  uncon- 
scious pride  which  enveloped  her  always  like  a 
mantle.  He,  sensitive  like  a  bond  slave  to  the 
moods  of  the  master,  was  moved  by  the  subtle 
relenting  of  her  grace  to  an  infinite  tenderness. 
He  fought  down  the  impulse  to  seize  her  by  the 
hand,  lead  her  down  into  the  garden  away  under 
the  big  trees,  and  throw  himself  at  her  feet 
uttering  words  of  love.  His  emotion  was  so 
strong  that  he  had  to  cough  slightly,  and  not 
knowing  what  to  talk  to  her  about  he  began  to 
tell  her  of  his  mother  and  sisters.  All  the  family 
were  coming  to  London  to  live  there,  for  some 
little  time  at  least. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  69 

"I  hope  you  will  go  and  tell  them  something 
of  me.     Something  seen,"  he  said  pressingly. 

By  this  miserable  subterfuge,  like  a  man  about 
to  part  with  his  life,  he  hoped  to  make  her  re- 
member him  a  little  longer. 

"Certainly,"  she  said.  "I'll  be  glad  to  call 
when  I  get  back.  But  that  *when'  may  be  a 
long  time." 

He  heard  a  light  sigh.  A  cruel  jealous  curi- 
osity made  him  ask — 

"Are  you  growing  weary.  Miss  Moorsom?" 

A  silence  fell  on  his  low-spoken  question 

"Do  you  mean  heart  weary .'^"  sounded  Miss 
Moorsom's  voice.     "  You  don't  know  me,  I  see." 

"Ah!     Never  despair,"  he  muttered. 

"This,  Mr  Renouard,  is  a  work  of  reparation. 
I  stand  for  truth  here.     I  can't  think  of  myself." 

He  could  have  taken  her  by  the  throat  for 
every  word  seemed  an  insult  to  his  passion;  but 
he  only  said — 

"I  never  doubted  the — the — nobility  of  your 
purpose." 

"And  to  hear  the  word  weariness  pronounced 
in  this  connection  surprises  me.  And  from  a 
man  too  who,  I  understand,  has  never  counted 
the  cost." 

"You  are  pleased  to  tease  me,"  he  said  di- 
rectly  he   had   recovered   his   voice   and   had 


70  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

mastered  his  anger.  It  was  as  if  Professor  Moor- 
som  had  dropped  poison  in  his  ear  which  was 
spreading  now  and  tainting  his  passion,  his  very 
jealousy.  He  mistrusted  every  word  that  came 
from  those  Hps  on  which  his  hfe  hung.  "How 
can  you  know  anything  of  men  who  do  not  count 
the  cost?"  he  asked  in  his  gentlest  tones. 

"  From  hearsay — a  little." 

"Well,  I  assure  you  they  are  like  the  others, 
subject  to  suffering,  victims  of  spells.    .    .    ." 

"  One  of  them,  at  least,  speaks  very  strangely." 

She  dismissed  the  subject  after  a  short  silence. 
"Mr.  Renouard,  I  had  a  disappointment  this 
morning.  This  mail  brought  me  a  letter  from 
the  widow  of  the  old  butler — you  know.  I  ex- 
pected to  learn  that  she  had  heard  from — from 
here.  But  no.  No  letter  arrived  home  since  we 
left." 

Her  voice  was  calm.  His  jealousy  couldn't 
stand  much  more  of  this  sort  of  talk;  but  he  was 
glad  that  nothing  had  turned  up  to  help  the 
search;  glad  blindly,  unreasonably — only  be- 
cause it  would  keep  her  longer  in  his  sight — since 
she  wouldn't  give  up. 

"I  am  too  near  her,"  he  thought,  moving  a 
little  farther  on  the  seat.  He  was  afraid  in  the 
revulsion  of  feeling  of  flinging  himself  on  her 
hands,  which  were  lying  on  her  lap,  and  covering 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  71 

them  with  kisses.  He  was  afraid.  Nothing, 
nothing  could  shake  that  spell — not  if  she  were 
ever  so  false,  stupid,  or  degraded.  She  was  fate, 
itself.  The  extent  of  his  misfortune  plunged 
him  in  such  a  stupor  that  he  failed  at  first  to 
hear  the  sound  of  voices  and  footsteps  inside  the 
drawing-room.  Willie  had  come  home — and 
the  Editor  was  with  him. 

They  burst  out  on  the  terrace  babbling  noisily, 
and  then  pulling  themselves  together  stood  still, 
surprising — and  as  if  themselves  surprised. 


VII 


They  had  been  feasting  a  poet  from  the  bush, 
the  latest  discovery  of  the  Editor.  Such  dis- 
coveries were  the  business,  the  vocation,  the 
pride  and  delight  of  the  only  apostle  of  letters  in 
the  hemisphere,  the  solitary  patron  of  culture, 
the  Slave  of  the  Lamp — as  he  subscribed  himself 
at  the  bottom  of  the  weekly  literary  page  of  his 
paper.  He  had  had  no  difficulty  in  persuading 
the  virtuous  Willie  (who  had  festive  instincts)  to 
help  in  the  good  work,  and  now  they  had  left  the 
poet  lying  asleep  on  the  hearthrug  of  the  edi- 
torial room  and  had  rushed  to  the  Dunster  man- 
sion wildly.  The  Editor  had  another  discovery 
to  announce.  Swaying  a  little  where  he  stood 
he  opened  his  mouth  very  wide  to  shout  the  one 
word  "Found!"  Behind  him  Willie  flung  both 
his  hands  above  his  head  and  let  them  fall  dra- 
matically. Renouard  saw  the  four  white-headed 
people  at  the  end  of  the  terrace  rise  all  together 
from  their  chairs  with  an  effect  of  sudden  panic. 
'  "I  tell  you — he — is — found,"  the  patron  of 
letters  shouted  emphatically. 

72 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  73 

"What  is  this!"  exclaimed  Renouard  in  a 
choked  voice.  Miss  Moorsom  seized  his  wrist 
suddenly,  and  at  that  contact  fire  ran  through  all 
his  veins,  a  hot  stillness  descended  upon  him  in 
which  he  heard  the  blood — or  the  fire — beating 
in  his  ears.  He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  rise, 
but  was  restrained  by  the  convulsive  pressure  on 
his  wrist. 

"No,  no."  Miss  Moorsom's  eyes  stared  black 
as  night,  searching  the  space  before  her.  Far 
away  the  Editor  strutted  forward,  Willie  follow- 
ing with  his  ostentatious  manner  of  carrying  his 
bulky  and  oppressive  carcass  which,  however, 
did  not  remain  exactly  perpendicular  for  two 
seconds  together. 

"The  innocent  Arthur  .  .  .  Yes.  We've  got 
him."  The  Editor  became  very  business-like. 
"Yes,  this  letter  has  done  it." 

He  plunged  into  an  inside  pocket  for  it,  slapped 
the  scrap  of  paper  with  his  open  palm.  "From 
that  old  woman.  William  had  it  in  his  pocket 
since  this  morning  when  Miss  Moorsom  gave  it 
to  him  to  show  me.  Forgot  all  about  it  till  an 
hour  ago.  Thought  it  was  of  no  importance. 
Well,  no !     Not  till  it  was  properly  read." 

Renouard  and  Miss  Moorsom  emerged  from 
the  shadows  side  by  side,  a  well-matched  couple, 
animated  yet  statuesque  in  their  calmness  and 


74  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

in  their  pallor.  She  had  let  go  his  wrist.  On 
catching  sight  of  Renouard  the  Editor  exclaimed: 
**  What — you  here ! "  in  a  quite  shrill  voice. 

There  came  a  dead  pause.  All  the  faces  had 
in  them  something  dismayed  and  cruel. 

"He's  the  very  man  we  want,"  continued  the 
Editor.  "  Excuse  my  excitement.  You  are  the 
very  man,  Renouard.  Didn't  you  tell  me  that 
your  assistant  called  himself  Walter?  Yes.? 
Thought  so.  But  here's  that  old  woman — the 
butler's  wife — listen  to  this.  She  writes:  All  I 
can  tell  you.  Miss,  is  that  my  poor  husband 
directed  his  letters  to  the  name  of  H.  Walter." 

Renouard's  violent  but  repressed  exclamation 
was  lost  in  a  general  murmur  and  shuffle  of  feet. 
The  Editor  made  a  step  forward,  bowed  with 
creditable  steadiness. 

"Miss  Moorsom,  allow  me  to  congratulate 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  on  the  happy 
— er — issue     .     .     ." 

"Wait,"  muttered  Renouard  irresolutely. 

The  Editor  jumped  on  him  in  the  manner  of 
their  old  friendship.  "Ah,  you!  You  are  a 
fine  fellow  too.  With  your  solitary  ways  of  life 
you  will  end  by  having  no  more  discrimination 
than  a  savage.  Fancy  living  with  a  gentleman 
for  months  and  never  guessing.  A  man,  I  am  cer- 
^'^tain,  accomplished,  remarkable,  out  of  the  com- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  75 

mon,  since  he  had  been  distinguished  "  (he  bowed 
again)  *'  by  Miss  Moorsom,  whom  we  all  admire." 

She  turned  her  back  on  him. 

"I  hope  to  goodness  you  haven't  been  leading 
him  a  dog's  life,  Geoffrey,"  the  Editor  addressed 
his  friend  in  a  whispered  aside. 

Renouard  seized  a  chair  violently,  sat  down, 
and  propping  his  elbow  on  his  knee  leaned 
his  head  on  his  hand.  Behind  him  the  sister 
of  the  professor  looked  up  to  heaven  and  wrung 
her  hands  stealthily.  Mrs.  Dunster's  hands 
were  clasped  forcibly  under  her  chin,  but  she, 
dear  soul,  was  looking  sorrowfully  at  Willie. 
The  model  nephew!  In  this  strange  state! 
So  very  much  flushed !  The  careful  disposition 
of  the  thin  hairs  across  Willie's  bald  spot  was 
deplorably  disarranged,  and  the  spot  itself  was 
red  and,  as  it  were,  steaming. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Geoffrey? "  The  Editor 
seemed  disconcerted  by  the  silent  attitudes 
round  him,  as  though  he  had  expected  all  these 
people  to  shout  and  dance.  "You  have  him 
on  the  island — haven't  you.^ " 

"Oh,  yes:  I  have  him  there,"  said  Renouard, 
without  looking  up. 

"  Well,  then ! "  The  Editor  looked  helplessly 
around  as  if  begging  for  response  of  some  sort. 
But  the  only  response  that  came  was  very  un- 


76  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

expected.  Annoyed  at  being  left  in  the  back- 
ground, and  also  because  very  little  drink  made 
him  nasty,  the  emotional  Willie  turned  malignant 
all  at  once,  and  in  a  bibulous  tone  surprising  in  a 
man  able  to  keep  his  balance  so  well — 

"Aha!  But  you  haven't  got  him  here — not 
yet! "  he  sneered.     "No!     You  haven't  got  him 

yet." 

This  outrageous  exhibition  was  to  the  Editor 
like  the  lash  to  a  jaded  horse.  He  positively 
jumped. 

"  What  of  that.?  What  do  you  mean.?  We— 
haven't — got — him — here.  Of  course  he  isn't 
here!  But  Geoffrey's  schooner  is  here.  She 
can  be  sent  at  dhce  lo  fetch  him  here.  No! 
Stay!  There's  a  better  plan.  Why  shouldn't 
you  all  sail  over  to  Malata,  professor.?  Save 
time!  I  am  sure  Miss  Moorsom  would  pre- 
fer    .     .     ." 

With  a  gallant  flourish  of  his  arm  he  looked 
for  Miss  Moorsom.  She  had  disappeared.  He 
was  taken  aback  somewhat. 

"Ah!  H'm.  Yes.  .  .  .  Why  not.  A 
pleasure  cruise,  delightful  ship,  delightful  sea- 
son, delightful  errand,  del  .  .  .  No !  There 
are  no  objections.  Geoffrey,  I  understand, 
has  indulged  in  a  bungalow  three  sizes  too  large 
for  him.     He  can  put  you  all  up.     It  will  be  a 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  77 

pleasure  for  him.  It  will  be  the  greatest  priv- 
ilege. Any  man  would  be  proud  of  being  an 
agent  of  this  happy  reunion.  I  am  proud 
of  the  little  part  I've  played.  He  will  consider 
it  the  greatest  honour.  Geoff,  my  boy,  you 
had  better  be  stirring  to-morrow  bright  and 
early  about  the  preparations  for  the  trip.  It 
would  be  criminal  to  lose  a  single  day." 

He  was  as  flushed  as  Willie,  the  excitement 
keeping  up  the  effect  of  the  festive  dinner.  For 
a  time  Renouard,  silent,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  a 
word  of  all  that  babble,  did  not  stir.  But  when 
he  got  up  it  was  to  advance  toward  the  Editor 
and  give  him  such  a  hearty  slap  on  the  back 
that  the  plump  little  man  reeled  in  his  tracks 
and  looked  quite  frightened  for  a  moment. 

"  You  are  a  heaven-born  discoverer  and  a  first- 
rate  manager.  .  .  .  He's  right.  It's  the 
only  way.  You  can't  resist  the  claim  of  senti- 
ment, and  you  must  even  risk  the  voyage  to 
Malata.  .  .  ."  Renouard's  voice  sank.  "A 
lonely  spot,"  he  added,  and  fell  into  thought  un- 
der all  these  eyes  converging  on  him  in  the  sud- 
den silence.  His  slow  glance  passed  over  all  the 
faces  in  succession,  remaining  arrested  on  Profes- 
sor Moorsom,  stony  eyed,  a  smouldering  cigar  in 
his  fingers,  and  with  his  sister  standing  by  his  side. 

"I  shall  be  infinitely  gratified  if  you  consent 


78  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

to  come.  But,  of  course,  you  will.  We  shall 
sail  to-morrow  evening  then.  And  now  let  me 
leave  you  to  your  happiness." 

He  bowed,  very  grave,  pointed  suddenly  his 
finger  at  Willie  who  was  swaying  about  with  a 
sleepy  frown.  .  .  .  "Look  at  him.  He's 
overcome  with  happiness.  You  had  better 
put  him  to  bed  .  .  ."  and  disappeared 
while  every  head  on  the  terrace  was  turned  to 
Willie  with  varied  expressions. 

Renouard  ran  through  the  house.  Avoiding 
the  carriage  road  he  fled  down  the  steep  short 
cut  to  the  shore,  where  his  gig  was  waiting.  At 
his  loud  shout  the  sleeping  Kanakas  jumped  up. 
He  leaped  in.  "Shove  off.  Give  way!"  and 
the  gig  darted  through  the  water.  "Give  way! 
Give  way!"  She  flew  past  the  wool-clippers 
sleeping  at  their  anchors  each  with  the  open 
unwinking  eye  of  the  lamp  in  the  rigging;  she 
flew  past  the  flagship  of  the  Pacific  squadron, 
a  great  mass  all  dark  and  silent,  heavy  with  the 
slumbers  of  five  hundred  men,  and  where  the 
invisible  sentries  heard  his  urgent  "Give  way! 
Give  way!"  in  the  night.  The  Kanakas,  pant- 
ing, rose  off  the  thwarts  at  every  stroke.  Noth- 
ing could  be  fast  enough  for  him!  And  he  ran 
up  the  side  of  his  schooner  shaking  the  ladder 
noisily  with  his  rush. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  79 

On  deck  he  stumbled  and  stood  still. 

Wherefore  this  haste?  To  what  end,  since 
he  knew  well  before  he  started  that  he  had  a 
pursuer  from  whom  there  was  no  escape? 

As  his  foot  touched  the  deck  his  will,  his  pur- 
pose he  had  been  hurrying  to  save,  died  out 
within  him.  It  had  been  nothing  less  than 
getting  the  schooner  under-way,  letting  her 
vanish  silently  in  the  night  from  amongst  these 
sleeping  ships.  And  now  he  was  certain  he 
could  not  do  it.  It  was  impossible!  And  he 
reflected  that  whether  he  lived  or  died  such 
an  act  would  lay  him  under  a  dark  suspicion 
from  which  he  shrank.  No,  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done. 

He  went  down  into  the  cabin  and,  before 
even  unbuttoning  his  overcoat,  took  out  of  the 
drawer  the  letter  addressed  to  his  assistant;  that 
letter  which  he  had  found  in  the  pigeon-hole 
labelled  "Malata"  in  young  Dunster's  outer 
office,  where  it  had  been  waiting  for  three 
months  some  occasion  for  being  forwarded. 
From  the  moment  of  dropping  it  in  the  drawer 
he  had  utterly  forgotten  its  existence — till 
now,  when  the  man's  name  had  come  out  so 
clamorously.  He  glanced  at  the  common  en- 
velope, noted  the  shaky  and  laborious  hand- 
writing:   H.  Walter,  Esqre.     Undoubtedly  the 


80  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

very  last  letter  the  old  butler  had  posted  before 
his  illness,  and  in  answer  clearly  to  one  from 
"Master  Arthur"  instructing  him  to  address 
in  the  future:  "Care  of  Messrs.  W.  Dunster 
and  Co."  Renouard  made  as  if  to  open  the 
envelope,  but  paused,  and,  instead,  tore  the 
letter  deliberately  in  two,  in  four,  in  eight. 
With  his  hand  full  of  pieces  of  paper  he  returned 
on  deck  and  scattered  them  overboard  on  the 
dark  water,  in  which  they  vanished  instantly. 

He  did  it  slowly,  without  hesitation  or  re- 
morse.    H.    Walter,    Esqre,    in    Malata.     The 

innocent    Arthur What   was    his    name? 

The  man  sought  for  by  that  woman  who  as  she 
went  by  seemed  to  draw  all  the  passion  of  the 
earth  to  her  without  effort,  not  deigning  to 
notice,  naturally,  as  other  women  breathed  the 
air.  But  Renouard  was  no  longer  jealous  of 
her  very  existence.  Whatever  its  meaning 
it  was  not  for  that  man  he  had  picked  up  casu- 
ally on  obscure  impulse,  to  get  rid  of  the  tire- 
some expostulations  of  a  so-called  friend;  a  man 
of  whom  he  really  knew  nothing — and  now.  a 
^  dead  man.  In  Malata.  Oh,  yes!  He  was 
there  secure  enough,  untroubled  in  his  grave. 
In  Malata.  To  bury  him  was*  the  last  service 
Renouard  had  rendered  to  his  assistant  before 
leaving  the  island  on  this  trip  to  town. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  81 

Like  many  men  ready  enough  for  arduous 
enterprises  Renouard  was  inclined  to  evade  the 
small  complications  of  existence.  This  trait  of 
his  character  was  composed  of  a  little  indolence, 
some  disdain,  and  a  shrinking  from  contests 
with  certain  forms  of  vulgarity — like  a  man  who 
would  face  a  lion  and  go  out  of  his  way  to  avoid 
a  toad.  His  intercourse  with  the  meddlesome 
journalist  was  that  merely  outward  intimacy 
without  sympathy  some  young  men  get  drawn 
into  easily.  It  had  amused  him  rather  to  keep 
that  "friend"  in  the  dark  about  the  fate  of  his 
assistant.  Renouard  had  never  needed  other 
company  than  his  own,  for  there  was  in  him 
something  of  the  sensitiveness  of  a  dreamer  who 
is  easily  jarred.  He  had  said  to  himself  that 
the  all-knowing  one  would  only  preach  again 
about  the  evils  of  solitude  and  worry  his  head 
off  in  favour  of  some  forlornly  useless  protege  of 
his.  Also  the  inquisitiveness  of  the  Editor 
had  irritated  him  and  had  closed  his  lips  in 
sheer  disgust. 

And  now  he  contemplated  the  noose  of  con- 
sequences drawing  tight  around  him. 

It  was  the  memory  of  that  diplomatic  reti- 
cence which  on  the  terrace  had  stifled  his  first 
cry  which  would  have  told  them  all  that  the 
man  sought  for  was  not  to  be  met  on  earth  any 


82  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

more.  He  shrank  from  the  absurdity  of  hear- 
ing the  all-knowing  one,  and  not  very  sober  at 
that,  turning  on  him  with  righteous  reproaches — 
"You  never  told  me.  You  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that  your  assistant  was  alive,  and  now  you 
say  he's  dead.  Which  is  it.^  Were  you  lying 
then  or  are  you  lying  now.? "  No !  the  thought  of 
such  a  scene  was  not  to  be  borne.  He  had  sat 
down  appalled,  thinking:  "What  shall  I  do 
now.f^" 

His  courage  had  oozed  out  of  him.  Speaking 
the  truth  meant  the  Moorsoms  going  away  at 
once — while  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  would  give 
the  last  shred  of  his  rectitude  to  secure  a  day 
,^more  of  her  company.  He  sat  on — silent. 
Slowly,  from  confused  sensations,  from  his  talk 
with  the  professor,  the  manner  of  the  girl  her- 
self, the  intoxicating  familiarity  of  her  sudden 
hand-clasp,  there  had  come  to  him  a  half  glim- 
mer of  hope.  The  other  man  was  dead.  Then! 
.  Madness,  of  course — but  he  could  not 
give  it  up.  He  had  listened  to  that  confounded 
busybody  arranging  everything — while  all  these 
people  stood  around  assenting,  under  the  spell 
of  that  dead  romance.  He  had  listened  scornful 
and  silent.  The  glimmers  of  hope,  of  oppor- 
tunity, passed  before  his  eyes.  He  had  only  to 
sit  still  and  say  nothing.     That  and  no  more. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  83 

And  what  was  truth  to  him  in  the  face  of  that 
great  passion  which  had  flung  him  prostrate  in 
spirit  at  her  adored  feet ! 

And  now  it  was  done !  FataHty  had  willed  it ! 
With  the  eyes  of  a  mortal  struck  by  the  madden- 
ing thunderbolt  of  the  gods,  Renouard  looked  up 
to  the  sky,  an  immense  black  pall  dusted  over 
with  gold,  on  which  great  shudders  seemed  to 
pass  from  the  breath  of  life  aflSrming  its  sway. 


VIII 

At  last,  one  morning,  in  a  clear  spot  of  a  glassy 
horizon  charged  with  heraldic  masses  of  black 
vapours,  the  island  grew  out  from  the  sea,  show- 
ing here  and  there  its  naked  members  of  basaltic 
rock  through  the  rents  of  heavy  foliage.  Later, 
in  the  great  spilling  of  all  the  riches  of  sunset, 
Malata  stood  out  green  and  rosy  before  turning 
into  a  violet  shadow  in  the  autumnal  light  of  the 
expiring  day.  Then  came  the  night.  In  the 
faint  airs  the  schooner  crept  on  past  a  sturdy 
squat  headland,  and  it  was  pitch  dark  when  her 
head-sails  ran  down,  she  turned  short  on  her  heel, 
and  her  anchor  bit  into  the  sandy  bottom  of  the 
edge  of  the  outer  reef;  for  it  was  too  dangerous 
then  to  attempt  entering  the  little  bay  full  of 
shoals.  After  the  last  solemn  flutter  of  the 
mainsail  the  murmuring  voices  of  the  Moorsom 
party  lingered,  very  frail,  in  the  black  stillness. 
They  were  sitting  aft,  on  chairs,  and  nobody 
made  a  move.  Early  in  the  day,  when  it  had 
become  evident  that  the  wind  was  failing,  Re- 
nouard,  basing  his  advice  on  the  shortcomings  of 

84 


THE  PLANTER  OF  IVIALATA  85 

his  bachelor  estabHshment,  had  urged  on  the 
ladies  the  advisability  of  not  going  ashore  in  the 
middle  of  the  night.  Now  he  approached  them 
in  a  constrained  manner  (it  was  astonishing  the 
constraint  that  had  reigned  between  him  and  his 
guests  all  through  the  passage)  and  renewed  his 
arguments.  No  one  ashore  would  dream  of  his 
bringing  any  visitors  with  him.  Nobody  would 
even  think  of  coming  off.  There  was  only  one 
old  canoe  on  the  plantation.  And  landing  in  the 
schooner's  boats  would  be  awkward  in  the  dark. 
There  was  the  risk  of  getting  aground  on  some 
shallow  patches.  It  would  be  best  to  spend  the 
rest  of  the  night  on  board. 

There  was  really  no  opposition.  The  pro- 
fessor smoking  a  pipe,  and  very  comfortable  in 
an  ulster  buttoned  over  his  tropical  clothes,  was 
the  first  to  speak  from  his  long  chair. 

"Most  excellent  advice." 

Next  to  him  Miss  Moorsom  assented  by  a  long 
silence.  Then  in  a  voice  as  of  one  coming  out  of 
a  dream — 

"And  so  this  is  Malata,"  she  said.  "I  have 
often  wondered     .     .     ." 

A  shiver  passed  through  Renouard.  She  had 
wondered!  What  about.?  Malata  was  himself. 
He  and  Malata  were  one.  And  she  wondered! 
She  had     .     .     . 


86  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

The  professor's  sister  leaned  over  toward  Re- 
nouard.  Through  all  these  days  at  sea  the  man's 
— the  found  man's — existence  had  not  been 
alluded  to  on  board  the  schooner.  That  reticence 
was  part  of  the  general  constraint  lying  upon 
them  all.  She,  herself,  certainly  had  not  been 
exactly  elated  by  this  finding — poor  Arthur, 
without  money,  without  prospects.  Bat  she  felt 
moved  by  the  sentiment  and  romance  of  the  situ- 
ation. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,"  she  whispered  out  of  her 
white  wrap,  *'to  think  of  poor  Arthur  sleeping 
there,  so  near  to  our  dear  lovely  Felicia,  and  not 
knowing  the  immense  joy  in  store  for  him  to- 
morrow." 

There  was  such  artificiality  in  the  wax-flower 
lady  that  nothing  in  this  speech  touched  Re- 
nouard.  It  was  but  the  simple  anxiety  of  his 
heart  that  he  was  voicing  when  he  muttered 
gloomily — 

"No  one  in  the  world  knows  what  to-morrow 
may  hold  in  store." 

The  mature  lady  had  a  recoil  as  though  he  had 
said  something  impolite.  What  a  harsh  thing  to 
say — instead  of  finding  something  nice  and 
appropriate.  On  board,  where  she  never  saw 
him  in  evening  clothes,  Renouard's  resemblance 
to  a  duke's  son  was  not  so  apparent  to  her. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  87 

Nothing  but  his — ah — bohemianism  remained. 
She  rose  with  a  sort  of  ostentation. 

"It's  late — and  since  we  are  going  to  sleep  on 
board  to-night  .  .  ."she  said.  "But  it  does 
seem  so  cruel." 

The  professor  started  up  eagerly,  knocking  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe.  "  Infinitely  more  sensible, 
my  dear  Emma." 

Renouard  waited  behind  Miss  Moorsom's 
chair. 

She  got  up  slowly,  moved  one  step  forward, 
and  paused  looking  at  the  shore.  The  blackness 
of  the  island  blotted  out  the  stars  with  its  vague 
mass  like  a  low  thundercloud  brooding  over  the 
waters  and  ready  to  burst  into  flame  and  crashes. 

"And  so — this  is  Malata,"  she  repeated 
dreamily,  moving  toward  the  cabin  door.  The 
clear  cloak  hanging  from  her  shoulders,  the  ivory 
face — for  the  night  had  put  out  nothing  of  her 
but  the  gleams  of  her  hair — made  her  resemble  a 
shining  dream  woman  uttering  words  of  wistful 
inquiry.  She  disappeared  without  a  sign,  leav- 
ing Renouard  penetrated  to  the  very  marrow  by 
the  sounds  that  came  from  her  body  like  a  mys- 
terious resonance  of  an  exquisite  instrument. 

He  stood  stock  still.  What  was  this  accidental 
touch  which  had  evoked  the  strange  accent  of 
her  voice .^    He  dared  not  answer  that  question. 


88  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

But  he  had  to  answer  the  question  of  what  was 
to  be  done  now.  Had  the  moment  of  confession 
come?  The  thought  was  enough  to  make  one's 
blood  run  cold. 

It  was  as  if  those  people  had  a  premonition  of 
something.  In  the  taciturn  days  of  the  passage 
he  had  noticed  their  reserve  even  amongst  them- 
selves. The  professor  smoked  his  pipe  moodily 
in  retired  spots.  Henouard  had  caught  Miss 
Moorsom's  eyes  resting  on  himself  more  than 
once  with  a  peculiar  and  grave  expression.  He 
fancied  that  she  avoided  all  opportunities  of  con- 
versation. The  maiden  lady  seemed  to  nurse  a 
grievance.    And  now  what  had  he  to  do.f^ 

The  lights  on  the  deck  had  gone  out  one  after 
the  other.    The  schooner  slept. 

About  an  hour  after  Miss  Moorsom  had  gone 
below  without  a  sign  or  a  word  for  him,  Re- 
nouard  got  out  of  his  hammock  slung  in  the  waist 
under  the  midship  awning — for  he  had  given  up 
all  the  accommodation  below  to  his  guests.  He 
got  out  with  a  sudden  swift  movement,  flung  off 
his  sleeping  jacket,  rolled  his  pyjamas  up  his 
thighs,  and  stole  forward,  unseen  by  the  one 
Kanaka  of  the  anchor-watch.  His  white  torso, 
naked  like  a  stripped  athlete's,  glimmered 
ghostly  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  deck.  Un- 
noticed he  got  out  of  the  ship  over  the  knight- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  89 

heads,  ran  along  the  back  rope,  and  seizing  the 
dolphin-striker  firmly  with  both  hands,  lowered 
himself  into  the  sea  without  a  splash. 

He  swam  away,  noiseless  like  a  fish,  and  then 
struck  boldly  for  the  land,  sustained,  embraced 
by  the  tepid  water.  The  gentle,  voluptuous 
heave  of  its  breast  swung  him  up  and  down 
slightly;  sometimes  a  wavelet  murmured  in  his 
ears ;  from  time  to  time,  lowering  his  feet,  he  felt 
for  the  bottom  on  a  shallow  patch  to  rest  and 
correct  his  direction.  He  landed  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  bungalow  garden,  into  the  dead  still- 
ness of  the  island.  There  were  no  lights.  The 
plantation  seemed  to  sleep  as  profoundly  as  the 
schooner.  On  the  path  a  small  shell  cracked 
under  his  naked  heel. 

The  faithful  half-caste  foreman  going  his 
rounds  cocked  his  ears  at  the  sharp  sound.  He 
gave  one  enormous  start  of  fear  at  the  sight  of 
the  swift  white  figure  flying  at  him  out  of  the 
night.  He  crouched  in  terror,  and  then  sprang 
up  and  clicked  his  tongue  in  amazed  recognition. 

"Tse!     Tse!     The  master!" 

"Be  quiet,  Luiz,  and  listen  to  what  I  say." 

Yes,  it  was  the  master,  the  strong  master  who 
was  never  known  to  raise  his  voice,  the  man 
blindly  obeyed  and  never  questioned.  He  talked 
low  and  rapidly  in  the  quiet  night,  as  if  every 


90  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

minute  were  precious.  On  learning  that  three 
guests  were  coming  to  stay  Luiz  cHcked  his 
tongue  rapidly.  These  clicks  were  the  uniform, 
stenographic  symbols  of  his  emotions,  and  he 
could  give  them  an  infinite  variety  of  meaning. 
He  listened  to  the  rest  in  a  deep  silence  hardly 
affected  by  the  low,  "Yes,  master,"  whenever 
Renouard  paused. 

"You  understand .f^ "  the  latter  insisted.  "No 
preparations  are  to  be  made  till  we  land  in  the 
morning.  And  you  are  to  say  that  Mr.  Walter 
has  gone  off  in  a  trading  schooner  on  a  round  of 
the  islands." 

"Yes,  master." 

* '  No  mistakes — mind ! " 

"No,  master." 

Renouard  walked  back  toward  the  sea.  Luiz, 
following  him,  proposed  to  call  out  half  a  dozen 
boys  and  man  the  canoe. 

"Imbecile!" 

"Tse!     Tse!    Tse!" 

"Don't  you  understand  that  you  haven't  seen 
me?" 

"Yes,  master.  But  what  a  long  swim.  Sup- 
pose you  drown." 

"Then  you  can  say  of  me  and  of  Mr.  Walter 
what  you  like.     The  dead  don't  mind." 

Renouard  entered  the  sea  and  heard  a  faint 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  91 

Tse!  Tse!  Tse!  of  concern  from  the  half-caste, 
who  had  already  lost  sight  of  the  master's  dark 
head  on  the  overshadowed  water. 

Renouard  set  his  direction  by  a  big  star  that, 
dipping  on  the  horizon,  seemed  to  look  curiously 
into  his  face.  On  this  swim  back  he  felt  the 
mournful  fatigue  of  all  that  length  of  the 
traversed  road,  which  brought  him  no  nearer  to 
his  desire.  It  was  as  if  his  love  had  sapped  the 
invisible  supports  of  his  strength.  There  came 
a  moment  when  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  must 
have  swum  beyond  the  confines  of  life.  He  had 
a  sensation  of  eternity  close  at  hand,  demand- 
ing no  effort — offering  its  peace.  It  was  easy 
to  swim  like  this  beyond  the  confines  of  life 
looking  at  a  star.  But  the  thought:  "They 
will  think  I  dared  not  face  them  and  committed 
suicide,"  caused  a  revolt  of  his  mind  which 
carried  him  on.  He  returned  on  board,  as  he 
had  left,  unheard  and  unseen.  He  lay  in  his 
hammock  utterly  exhausted  and  with  a  con- 
fused feeling  that  he  had  been  beyond  the  con- 
fines of  life,  somewhere  near  a  star,  and  that  it 
was  very  quiet  there. 


IX 


Sheltered  by  the  squat  headland  from  the  first 
morning  sparkle  of  the  sea  the  little  bay  breathed 
a  delicious  freshness.  The  party  from  the 
schooner  landed  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
They  exchanged  insignificant  words  in  studi- 
ously casual  tones.  The  professor's  sister  put 
up  a  long-handled  eyeglass  as  if  to  scan  the 
novel  surroundings,  but  in  reality  searching  for 
poor  Arthur  anxiously.  Having  never  seen 
him  otherwise  than  in  his  town  clothes  she  had 
no  idea  what  he  would  look  like.  It  had  been 
left  to  the  professor  to  help  his  ladies  out  of  the 
boat  because  Renouard,  as  if  intent  on  giving 
directions,  had  stepped  forward  at  once  to 
meet  the  half-caste  Luiz  hurrying  down  the 
path.  In  the  distance,  in  front  of  the  dazzlingly 
sunlit  bungalow,  a  row  of  dark-faced  house  boys, 
unequal  in  stature  and  varied  in  complexion, 
preserved  the  immobility  of  a  guard  of  honour. 

Luiz  had  taken  off  his  soft  felt  hat  before 
coming  within  earshot.  Henouard  bent  his 
head  to  his  rapid  talk  of  domestic  arrangements 

92 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  93 

he  meant  to  make  for  the  visitors;  another  bed 
in  the  master's  room  for  the  ladies  and  a  cot  for 
the  gentleman  to  be  hung  in  the  room  opposite 
where — where  Mr.  Walter — here  he  gave  a 
scared  look  all  round — Mr.  Walter — had  died. 

"Very  good,"  assented  Renouard  in  an  even 
undertone.  "And  remember  what  you  have  to 
say  of  him." 

"Yes,  master.  Only" — he  WT-iggled  slightly 
and  put  one  bare  foot  on  the  other  for  a  moment 
in  apologetic  embarrassment — "only  I — I — 
don't  like  to  say  it." 

Renouard  looked  at  him  without  anger, 
without  any  sort  of  expression.  "Frightened 
of  the  dead.?  Eh.?  Well— all  right.  I  will 
say  it  myself — I  suppose  once  for  all.  .  .  ." 
Immediately  he  raised  his  voice  very  much. 

"Send  the  boys  down  to  bring  up  the  lug- 
gage." 

"Yes,  master." 

Renouard  turned  to  his  distinguished  guests 
who,  like  a  personally  conducted  party  of 
tourists,  had  stopped  and  were  looking  about 
them. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  began  with  an  impassive 
face.  *'My  man  has  just  told  me  that  Mr. 
Walter  .  .  ."  he  managed  to  smile,  but 
didn't    correct    himself.     .     .     "has    gone    in 


94  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

a  trading  schooner  on  a  short  tour  of  the  islands, 
to  the  westward." 

This  communication  was  received  in  pro- 
found silence. 

Renouard  forgot  himself  in  the  thought:  "It's 
done!"  But  the  sight  of  the  string  of  boys 
marching  up  to  the  house  with  suitcases  and 
dressing-bags  rescued  him  from  that  appalling 
abstraction. 

"All  I  can  do  is  to  beg  you  to  make  yourselves 
at  home  .  .  .  with  what  patience  you 
may." 

This  was  so  obviously  the  only  thing  to  do 
that  everybody  moved  on  at  once.  The  pro- 
fessor walked  alongside  Renouard,  behind  the 
two  ladies. 

"Rather  unexpected — this  absence." 

"Not  exactly,"  muttered  Renouard.  "A 
trip  has  to  be  made  every  year  to  engage 
labour." 

"I  see  .  .  .  And  he  .  .  .  How  vex- 
ingly  elusive  the  poor  fellow  has  become!  I'll 
begin  to  think  that  some  wicked  fairy  is  favour- 
ing this  love  tale  with  unpleasant  attentions." 

Renouard  noticed  that  the  party  did  not 
seem  weighed  down  by  this  new  disappoint- 
ment. On  the  contrary  they  moved  with  a 
freer  step.    The  professor's  sister  dropped  her 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  95 

eyeglass  to  the  end  of  its  chain.  Miss  Moor- 
som  took  the  lead.  The  professor,  his  lips 
unsealed,  lingered  in  the  open:  but  Renouard 
did  not  listen  to  that  man's  talk.  He  looked 
after  that  man's  daughter — if  indeed  that 
creature  of  irresistible  seductions  were  a  daughter 
of  mortals.  The  very  intensity  of  his  desire, 
as  if  his  soul  were  streaming  after  her  through 
his  eyes,  defeated  his  object  of  keeping  hold  of 
her  as  long  as  possible  with,  at  least,  one  of 
his  senses.  Her  moving  outlines  dissolved  into 
a  misty  coloured  shimmer  of  a  woman  made  of 
flame  and  shadows  crossing  the  threshold  of  his 
house. 

The  days  which  followed  were  not  exactly 
such  as  Renouard  had  feared — yet  they  were 
not  better  than  his  fears.  They  were  accursed 
in  all  the  moods  they  brought  him.  But  the 
general  aspect  of  things  was  quiet.  The  pro- 
fessor smoked  innumerable  pipes  with  the  air 
of  a  worker  on  his  holiday,  always  in  movement 
and  looking  at  things  with  that  mysteriously 
sagacious  aspect  of  men  who  are  admittedly 
wiser  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  His  white 
head  of  hair — whiter  than  anything  within 
the  horizon  except  the  broken  water  on  the 
reefs — was  glimpsed  in  every  part  of  the  planta- 
tion always  on  the  move  under  the  white  parasol. 


96  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

And  once  he  climbed  the  headland  and  appeared 
suddenly  to  those  below,  a  white  speck  elevated 
in  the  blue,  with  a  diminutive  but  statuesque 
effect. 

Felicia  Moorsom  remained  near  the  house. 
Sometimes  she  could  be  seen  with  a  despairing 
expression  scribbling  rapidly  in  her  lock-up 
diary.  But  only  for  a  moment.  At  the  sound 
of  Renouard's  footsteps  she  would  turn  toward 
him  her  beautiful  face,  adorable  in  that  calm 
which  was  like  a  wilful,  like  a  cruel  ignoring  of 
her  tremendous  power.  WTienever  she  sat 
on  the  veranda,  on  a  chair  more  specially 
reserved  for  her  use,  Renouard  would  stroll 
up  and  sit  on  the  steps  near  her,  mostly  silent, 
and  often  not  trusting  himself  to  turn  his 
glance  on  her.  She,  very  still,  with  her  eyes 
half  closed,  looked  down  on  his  head — so  that 
to  a  beholder  (such  as  Professor  Moorsom,  for 
instance)  she  would  appear  to  be  turning  over 
in  her  mind  profound  thoughts  about  that  man 
sitting  at  her  feet,  his  shoulders  bowed  a  little, 
his  hands  listless — as  if  vanquished.  And, 
indeed,  the  moral  poison  of  falsehood  has  such 
I  sa  decomposing  power  that  Renouard  felt  his 
V  bold  personality  turn  to  dead  dust.  Often,  in 
^  the  evening,  when  they  sat  outside  convers- 
ing  languidly   in   the   dark,    he    felt   that    he 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA     .       97 

must  rest  his  forehead  on  her  feet  and  burst 
into  tears. 

The  professor's  sister  suffered  from  some  little 
strain  caused  by  the  unstabihty  of  her  own 
feelings  toward  Renouard.  She  could  not  tell 
whether  she  really  did  dislike  him  or  not.  At 
times  he  appeared  to  her  most  fascinating;  and, 
though  he  generally  ended  by  saying  something 
shockingly  crude,  she  could  not  resist  her  in- 
clination to  talk  with  him — at  least  not  always. 
One  day  when  her  niece  had  left  them  alone  on 
the  veranda  she  leaned  forward  in  her  chair — 
speckless,  resplendent,  and,  in  her  way,  almost 
as  striking  a  personality  as  her  niece,  who  did 
not  resemble  her  in  the  least.  "Dear  Felicia 
has  inherited  her  hair  and  the  greatest  part  of 
her  appearance  from  her  mother,"  the  maiden 
lady  used  to  tell  people. 

She  leaned  forward  then,  confidentially. 

*'0h!  Mr.  Renouard!  Haven't  you  some- 
thing comforting  to  say  .^  " 

He  looked  up,  as  surprised  as  if  a  voice  from 
heaven  had  spoken  with  this  perfect  society 
intonation,  and  by  the  puzzled  profundity  of 
his  blue  eyes  fluttered  the  wax  flower  of  refined 
womanhood.  She  continued.  "For — I  can 
speak  to  you  openly  on  this  tiresome  subject — 
only  think  what  a  terrible  strain  this  hope  de- 


98  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

ferred  must  be  for  Felicia's  heart — for  her 
nerves." 

"WTiy  speak  to  me  about  it,"  he  muttered, 
feeling  half  choked  suddenly. 

"Why!  As  a  friend — a  well-wisher — the 
kindest  of  hosts.  I  am  afraid  we  are  really 
eating  you  out  of  house  and  home."  She 
laughed  a  little.  "Ah!  When,  when  will  this 
suspense  be  relieved!  That  poor  lost  Arthur! 
I  confess  that  I  am  almost  afraid  of  the  great 
moment.     It  will  be  like  seeing  a  ghost." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  ghost .'^"  asked  Renou- 
ard  in  a  dull  voice. 

She  shifted  her  hands  a  little.  Her  pose  was 
perfect  in  its  ease  and  middle-aged  grace. 

"Not  actually.  Only  in  a  photograph.  But 
we  have  many  friends  who  had  the  experience  of 
apparitions." 

"Ah!  They  see  ghosts  in  London,"  mumbled 
Renouard,  not  looking  at  her. 

"Frequently — in  a  certain  very  interesting 
set.  But  all  sorts  of  people  do.  We  have  a 
friend,  a  very  famous  author — his  ghost  is  a 
girl.  One  of  my  brother's  intimates  is  a  very 
great  man  of  science.  He  is  friendly  with  a 
ghost  ...  Of  a  girl  too,"  she  added  in  a 
voice  as  if  struck  for  the  first  time  by  the  coin- 
cidence.    "It  is  the  photograph  of  that  ap- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  99 

parition  which  I  have  seen.  Very  sweet.  Most 
interesting.  A  little  cloudy  naturally.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Renouard!  I  hope  you  are  not  a  sceptic. 
It's  so  consoling  to  think     .     .     ." 

"Those  plantation  boys  of  mine  see  ghosts 
too,"  said  Renouard  grimly. 

The  sister  of  the  philosopher  sat  up  stiffly. 
What  crudeness!  It  was  always  so  with  this 
strange  young  man.  -. 

"Mr.  Renouard!  How  can  you  compare  the 
superstitious  fancies  of  your  horrible  savages 
with  the  manifestations     ..."  '^ 

Words  failed  her.  She  broke  off  with  a  very 
faint  primly  angry  smile.  She  was  perhaps  the 
more  offended  with  him  because  of  that  flutter 
at  the  beginning  of  the  conversation.  And  in  a 
moment,  with  perfect  tact  and  dignity,  she  got 
up  from  her  chair  and  left  him  alone. 

Renouard  didn't  even  look  up.  It  was  not  the 
displeasure  of  the  lady  which  deprived  him  of 
his  sleep  that  night.  He  was  beginning  to  forget 
what  simple,  honest  sleep  was  like.  His  ham- 
mock from  the  ship  had  been  hung  for  him  on  a 
side  veranda,  and  he  spent  his  nights  in  it  on 
his  back,  his  hands  folded  on  his  chest,  in  a  sort 
of  half-conscious,  oppressed  stupor.  In  the 
morning  he  watched  with  unseeing  eyes  the 
headland  come  out  a  shapeless  inkblot  against 


100         THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

the  thin  Hght  of  the  false  dawn,  pass  through  all 
the  stages  of  daybreak  to  the  deep  purple  of  its 
outlined  mass  nimbed  gloriously  with  the  gold  of 
the  rising  sun.  He  listened  to  the  vague  sounds 
of  waking  within  the  house:  and  suddenly  he  be- 
came aware  of  Luiz  standing  by  the  hammock— 
obviously  troubled. 

"What's  the  matter.^" 

"Tse!     Tse!     Tse!" 

"Well,  what  now.^  trouble  with  the  boys.?" 

"No,  master.  The  gentleman  when  1  take  him 
his  bath  water  he  speak  to  me.  He  ask  me — he 
ask — when,  when  I  think  Mr.  Walter,  he  come 
back." 

The  half-breed's  teeth  chattered  slightly. 
Renouard  got  out  of  the  hammock. 

"And  he  is  here  all  the  time — eh?" 

Luiz  nodded  a  scared  affirmative,  but  at  once 
protested,  "I  no  see  him.  I  never.  Not  I!  The 
ignorant  wild  boys  say  they  see  .  .  .  Some- 
thing!    Ough!" 

He  clapped  his  teeth  on  another  short  rattle, 
and  stood  there,  shrunk,  blighted  like  a  man  in  a 
freezing  blast. 

"And  what  did  you  say  to  the  gentleman .f^'* 

"I  say  I  don't  know — and  I  clear  out.  I — I 
don't  like  to  speak  of  him." 

"All  right.       We  shall  try  to  lay  that  poor 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  101 

ghost,"  said  Renouard  gloomily,  going  off  to  a 
small  hut  near  by  to  dress.  He  was  saying  to 
himself :  "This  fellow  will  end  by  giving  me  away. 
The  last  thing  that  I  ...  No!  That  mustn't 
be."  And  feeling  his  hand  being  forced  he  dis- 
covered the  whole  extent  of  his  cowardice. 


That  morning  wandering  about  his  plantation, 
more  like  a  frightened  soul  than  its  creator  and 
master,  he  dodged  the  white  parasol  bobbing  up 
here  and  there  like  a  buoy  adrift  on  a  sea  of  dark- 
green  plants.  The  crop  promised  to  be  magnifi- 
cent, and  the  fashionable  philosopher  of  the  age 
took  other  than  a  merely  scientific  interest  in  the 
experiment.  His  investments  were  judicious, 
but  he  had  always  some  little  money  lying  by 
for  experiments. 

After  lunch,  being  left  alone  with  Renouard, 
he  talked  a  little  of  cultivation  and  such  matters. 
Then  suddenly : 

"By  the  way,  is  it  true  what  my  sister  tells  me, 
that  your  plantation  boys  have  been  disturbed 
by  a  ghost  .f^" 

Renouard,  who  since  the  ladies  had  left  the 
table  was  not  keeping  such  a  strict  watch  on  him- 
self, came  out  of  his  abstraction  with  a  start  and 
a  stiff  smile. 

"My  foreman  had  some  trouble  with  them 

102 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  103 

during  my  absence.  They  funk  working  in  a 
certain  field  on  the  slope  of  the  hill." 

"A  ghost  here!"  exclaimed  the  amused  pro- 
fessor. *'Then  our  whole  conception  of  the 
psychology  of  ghosts  must  be  revised.  This 
island  has  been  uninhabited  probably  since  the 
dawn  of  ages.  How  did  a  ghost  come  here.  By 
air  or  water  .^^  And  why  did  it  leave  its  native 
haunts.  Was  it  from  misanthropy .^^  Was  he  ex- 
pelled from  some  community  of  spirits.^" 

Renouard  essayed  to  respond  in  the  same  tone. 
The  words  died  on  his  lips.  Was  it  a  man  or  a 
woman  ghost,  the  professor  inquired. 

"I  don't  know."  Renouard  made  an  effort  to 
appear  at  ease.  He  had,  he  said,  a  couple  of 
Tahitians  amongst  his  boys — a  ghost-ridden 
race.  They  had  started  the  scare.  They  had 
probably  brought  their  ghost  with  them. 

"Let  us  investigate  the  matter,  Renouard," 
proposed  the  professor  half  in  earnest.  "We 
may  make  some  interesting  discoveries  as  to  the 
state  of  primitive  minds,  at  any  rate." 

This  was  too  much.  Renouard  jumped  up  and 
leaving  the  room  went  out  and  walked  about  in 
front  of  the  house.  He  would  allow  no  one  to 
force  his  hand.  Presently  the  professor  joined 
him  outside.  He  carried  his  parasol,  but  had 
neither  his  book  nor  his  pipe  with  him.    Amiably 


104  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

serious  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  "dear  young 
friend's"  arm. 

"We  are  all  of  us  a  little  strung  up,"  he  said. 
"For  my  part  I  have  been  like  sister  Anne  in  the 
story.  But  I  cannot  see  anything  coming.  Any- 
thing that  would  be  the  least  good  for  anybody 
— I  mean." 

Renouard  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  mur- 
mur coldly  his  regret  of  this  waste  of  time.  For 
that  was  what,  he  supposed,  the  professor  had  in 
his  mind. 

"Time,"  mused  Professor  Moorsom.  "I 
don't  know  that  time  can  be  wasted.  But  I  will 
tell  you,  my  dear  friend,  what  this  is:  it  is  an 
awful  waste  of  life.  I  mean  for  all  of  us.  Even 
Y/'  for  my  sister,  who  has  got  a  headache  and  is  gone 
to  lie  down." 

He  shook  gently  Renouard's  arm.  *'Yes,  for 
all  of  us!  One  may  meditate  on  life  endlessly, 
one  may  even  have  a  poor  opinion  of  it — but  the 
fact  remains  that  we  have  only  one  life  to  live. 
And  it  is  short.  Think  of  that,  my  young  friend." 

He  released  Renouard 's  arm  and  stepped  out 
of  the  shade  opening  his  parasol.  It  was  clear 
that  there  was  something  more  in  his  mind  than 
mere  anxiety  about  the  date  of  his  lectures  for 
fashionable  audiences.  What  did  the  man  mean 
by  his  confounded  platitudes.'^    To  Renouard, 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  105 

scared  by  Luiz  in  the  morning  (for  he  felt  that 
nothing  could  be  more  fatal  than  to  have  his 
deception  unveiled  otherwise  than  by  personal 
confession)  this  talk  sounded  like  encourage- 
ment or  a  warning  from  that  man  who  seemed  to 
him  to  be  very  brazen  and  very  subtle.  It  was 
like  being  bullied  by  the  dead  and  cajoled  by  the 
living  into  a  throw  of  dice  for  a  supreme  stake. 

Renouard  went  away  to  some  distance  from 
the  house  and  threw  himself  down  in  the  shade 
of  a  tree.  He  lay  there  perfectly  still  with  his 
forehead  resting  on  his  folded  arms,  light  headed 
and  thinking.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  be 
on  fire,  then  that  he  had  fallen  into  a  cool  whirl- 
pool, a  smooth  funnel  of  water  swirling  about 
with  nauseating  rapidity.  And  then  (it  must 
have  been  a  reminiscence  of  his  boyhood)  he 
was  walking  on  the  dangerous  thin  ice  of  a  river, 
unable  to  turn  back.  ,  .  .  Suddenly  it  parted 
from  shore  to  shore  with  a  loud  crack  like  the 
report  of  a  gun. 

With  one  leap  he  found  himself  on  his  feet. 
All  was  peace,  stillness,  sunshine.  He  walked 
away  from  there  slowly.  Had  he  been  a  gam- 
bler he  would  have  perhaps  been  supported  in  a 
measure  by  the  mere  excitement.  But  he  was 
not  a  gambler.  He  had  always  disdained  that 
artificial  manner  of  challenging  the  fates.     The 


106  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

bungalow  came  into  view,  bright  and  pretty,  and 
all  about  everything  was  peace,  stillness,  sun- 
shine.   .    .    . 

While  he  was  plodding  toward  it  he  had  a  dis- 
agreeable sense  of  the  dead  man's  company  at 
his  elbow.  The  ghost !  He  seemed  to  be  every- 
where but  in  his  grave.  Could  one  ever  shake 
him  off?  he  wondered.  At  that  moment  Miss 
Moorsom  came  out  on  the  veranda;  and  at 
once,  as  if  by  a  mystery  of  radiating  waves,  she 
roused  a  great  tumult  in  his  heart,  shook  earth 
and  sky  together — but  he  plodded  on.  Then 
like  a  grave  song-note  in  the  storm  her  voice  came 
to  him  ominously. 

"Ah!    Mr.  Renouard "     He  came 

up  and  smiled  calmly,  but  she  was  very  serious. 
"I  can't  keep  still  any  longer.  Is  there  time  to 
walk  up  this  headland  and  back  before  dark.^^" 

The  shadows  were  lying  lengthened  on  the 
ground;  all  was  stillness  and  peace.  *'No,"  said 
Renouard,  feeling  suddenly  as  steady  as  a  rock. 
**But  I  can  show  you  a  view  from  the  central 
hill  which  your  father  has  not  seen — a  view  of 
reefs  and  of  broken  water  without  end,  and  of 
great  wheeling  clouds  of  sea-birds." 

She  came  down  the  veranda  steps  at  once  and 
they  moved  off.  *'You  go  first,"  he  proposed, 
"and  I'll  direct  you.     To  the  left." 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  107 

She  was  wearing  a  short  nankin  skirt,  a  musKn 
blouse;  he  could  see  through  the  thin  stuff  the 
skin  of  her  shoulders,  of  her  arms.  The  noble 
delicacy  of  her  neck  cause  him  a  sort  of  trans- 
port. "The  path  begins  where  these  three  palms 
are.    The  only  palms  on  the  island." 

"I  see." 

She  never  turned  her  head.  After  a  while  she 
observed:  "This  path  looks  as  if  it  had  been 
made  recently." 

"Quite  recently,"  he  assented  very  low. 

They  went  on  climbing  steadily  without  ex- 
changing another  word;  and  when  they  stood  on 
the  top  she  gazed  a  long  time  before  her.  The 
low  evening  mist  veiled  the  further  limit  of  the 
reefs.  Above  the  enormous  and  melancholy  con- 
fusion, as  of  a  fleet  of  wrecked  islands,  the  rest- 
less myriads  of  sea-birds  rolled  and  unrolled  dark 
ribbons  on  the  sky,  gathered  in  clouds,  soared 
and  stooped  like  a  play  of  shadows,  for  they  were 
too  far  for  them  to  hear  their  cries. 

Renouard  broke  the  silence  in  low  tones. 

"They'll  be  settling  for  the  night  presently." 
She  made  no  sound.  Round  them  all  was  peace 
and  declining  sunshine.  Near  by  the  topmost 
pinnacle  of  Malata,  resembling  the  top  of  a 
buried  tower,  rose  a  rock,  weather-worn,  grey, 
weary  of  watching  the  monotonous  centuries  of 


108  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

the  Pacific.  Renouard  leaned  his  shoulders 
against  it.  Felicia  Moorsom  faced  him  suddenly, 
her  splendid  black  eyes  full  on  his  face  as  though 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  at  last  to  destroy  his 
wits  once  and  for  all.  Dazzled,  he  lowered  his 
eyelids  slowly. 

"Mr.  Renouard!  There  is  something  strange 
in  all  this.     Tell  me  where  he  is?  " 

He  answered  deliberately. 

"On  the  other  side  of  this  rock.  I  buried  him 
there  myself." 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  breast,  struggled 
for  her  breath  for  a  moment,  then:  "Ohhh! 
.  .  .  You  buried  him!  .  .  .  What  sort 
of  man  are  you.f^  .  .  .  You  dared  not  tell! 
.  .  He  is  another  of  your  victims?  .  .  . 
You  dared  not  confess  that  evening.  . 
You  must  have  killed  him.  What  could  he 
have  done  to  you?  .  .  .  You  fastened  on  him 
some  atrocious  quarrel  and     .     .     ." 

Her  vengeful  aspect,  her  poignant  cries  left 
him  as  unmoved  as  the  weary  rock  against 
which  he  leaned.  He  only  raised  his  eyelids  to 
look  at  her  and  lowered  them  slowly.  Nothing 
more.  It  silenced  her.  And  as  if  ashamed  she 
made  a  gesture  with  her  hand,  putting  away  from 
her  that  thought.  He  spoke,  quietly  ironic  at  first. 

"Ha!   the  legendary  Renouard   of  sensitive 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  109 

idiots — the  ruthless  adventurer — the  ogre  with 
a  future.  That  was  a  parrot  cry,  Miss  Moor- 
som.  I  don't  think  that  the  greatest  fool  of 
them  all  ever  dared  hint  such  a  stupid  thing  of 
me  that  I  killed  men  for  nothing.  No,  I  had 
noticed  this  man  in  a  hotel.  He  had  come 
from  up  country  I  was  told,  and  was  doing 
nothing.  I  saw  him  sitting  there  lonely  in  a 
corner  like  a  sick  crow,  and  I  went  over  one 
evening  to  talk  to  him.  Just  on  impulse.  He 
wasn't  impressive.  He  was  pitiful.  My  worst 
enemy  could  have  told  you  he  wasn't  good 
enough  to  be  one  of  Renouard's  victims.  It 
didn't  take  me  long  to  judge  that  he  was  drug- 
ging himself.     Not  drinking.     Drugs." 

"Ah !  It's  now  that  you  are  trying  to  murder 
him,"  she  cried. 

"Really.  Always  the  Renouard  of  shop- 
keepers' legend.  Listen!  I  would  never  have 
been  jealous  of  him.  And  yet  I  am  jealous  of 
the  air  you  breathe,  of  the  soil  you  tread  on,  of 
the  world  that  sees  you — moving  free — not 
mine.  But  never  mind.  I  rather  liked  him. 
For  a  certain  reason  I  proposed  he  should  come 
to  be  my  assistant  here.  He  said  he  believed 
this  would  save  him.  It  did  not  save  him  from 
death.  It  came  to  him  as  it  were  from  noth- 
ing— just  a  fall.     A  mere  slip  and  tumble  of 


110         THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

ten  feet  into  a  ravine.  But  it  seems  he  had  been 
hurt  before  up  country — by  a  horse.  He  ailed 
and  ailed.  No,  he  was  not  a  steel-tipped  man. 
And  his  poor  soul  seemed  to  have  been  damaged 
too.     It  gave  way  very  soon." 

"This  is  tragic!"  Felicia  Moorsom  whispered 
with  feeling.  Renouard's  lips  twitched,  but  his 
level  voice  continued  mercilessly. 

"That's  the  story.  He  rallied  a  little  one 
night  and  said  he  wanted  to  tell  me  something. 
I,  being  a  gentleman,  he  said,  he  could  confide  in 
me.  I  told  him  that  he  was  mistaken.  That 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  a  plebeian  in  me,  that 
he  couldn't  know.  He  seemed  disappointed. 
He  muttered  something  about  his  innocence 
and  something  that  sounded  like  a  curse  on 
some  woman,  then  turned  to  the  wall  and — 
just  grew  cold." 

"On  a  woman,"  cried  Miss  Moorsom  in- 
dignantly.    "  \Miat  woman  .^  " 

"I  wonder!"  said  Renouard,  raising  his  eyes 
and  noting  the  crimson  of  her  ear-lobes  against 
the  live  whiteness  of  her  complexion,  the  sombre, 
as  if  secret,  night  splendour  of  her  eyes  under 
the  writhing  flames  of  her  hair.  "Some  woman 
who  wouldn't  believe  in  that  poor  innocence 
of  his.  .  .  .  Yes.  You  probably.  And  now 
you  will  not  believe  in  me — not  even  in  me 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  111 

who  must  in  truth  be  what  I  am — even  to 
death.  No!  You  won't.  And  yet,  FeKcia, 
a  woman  Hke  you  and  a  man  hke  me  do  not 
often  come  together  on  this  earth." 

The  flame  of  her  glorious  head  scorched  his 
face.  He  flung  his  hat  far  away,  and  his  sud- 
denly lowered  eyelids  brought  out  startlingly 
his  resemblance  to  antique  bronze,  the  profile  of 
Pallas,  stiU,  austere,  bowed  a  little  in  the  shadow 
of  the  rock.  *'0h!  If  you  could  only  under- 
stand the  truth  that  is  in  me!"  he  added. 

She  waited,  as  if  too  astounded  to  speak,  till 
he  looked  up  again,  and  then  with  unnatural 
force  as  if  defending  herself  from  some  unspoken 
aspersion:  "It's  I  who  stand  for  truth  here! 
Believe  in  you!  In  you,  who  by  a  heartless 
falsehood — and  nothing  else,  nothing  else,  do 
you  hear.f^ — have  brought  me  here,  deceived, 
cheated,  as  in  some  abominable  farce ! "  She  sat 
down  on  a  boulder,  rested  her  chin  in  her  hands, 
in  the  pose  of  simple  grief — mourning  for  herself. 

*'It  only  wanted  this.  Why!  Oh!  Why  is 
it  that  ugliness,  ridicule,  and  baseness  must  fall 
across  my  path." 

On  that  height,  alone  with  the  sky,  they  spoke 
to  each  other  as  if  the  earth  had  fallen  away 
from  under  their  feet. 

"Are  you  grieving  for  your  dignity.'^     He  was 


112  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

a  mediocre  soul  and  could  have  given  you  but  an 
unworthy  existence." 

She  did  not  even  smile  at  those  words,  but, 
superb,  as  if  lifting  a  corner  of  the  veil,  she 
turned  on  him  slowly. 

"And  do  you  imagine  I  would  have  devoted 
myself  to  him  for  such  a  purpose!  Don't  you 
know  that  reparation  was  due  to  him  from  me? 
A  sacred  debt — a  fine  duty.  To  redeem  him 
would  not  have  been  in  my  power — I  know  it. 
But  he  was  blameless,  and  it  was  for  me  to 
come  forward.  Don't  you  see  that  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  nothing  could  have  rehabilitated 
him  so  completely  as  his  marriage  with  me? 
No  word  of  evil  could  be  whimpered  of  him  after 
I  had  given  him  my  hand.  /As  to  giving  myself 
up  to  anything  less  than  the  shaping  of  a  man's 
destiny — if  I  thought  I  could  do  it  I  would 
abhor  myself.  .  .  ."  She  spoke  with  au- 
thority in  her  deep,  fascinating,  unemotional 
voice.  Renouard  meditated,  gloomy,  as  if  over 
some  sinister  riddle  of  a  beautiful  sphinx  met 
on  the  wild  road  of  his  life. 

"Yes.  Your  father  was  right.  You  are  one 
of  these  aristocrats     .     .     ." 

She  drew  herself  up  haughtily. 

"What  do  you  say.^  My  father!  ...  I 
an  aristocrat." 


THE  PLANTER  OF  JVIALATA  113 

"Oh!  I  don't  mean  that  you  are  like  the 
men  and  women  of  the  time  of  armours,  castles, 
and  great  deeds.  Oh,  no!  They  stood  on  the 
naked  soil,  had  traditions  to  be  faithful  to,  had 
their  feet  on  this  earth  of  passions  and  death 
which  is  not  a  hothouse.  They  would  have  been 
too  plebeian  for  you  since  they  had  to  lead,  to 
suffer  with,  to  understand  the  commonest 
humanity.  No,  you  are  merely  of  the  topmost 
layer,  disdainful  and  superior,  the  mere  pure 
froth  and  bubble  on  the  inscrutable  depths 
which  some  day  will  toss  you  out  of  existence. 
But  you  are  you!  You  are  you!  You  are  the 
eternal  love  itself — only,  O  Divinity,  it  isn't 
your  body,  it  is  your  soul  that  is  made  of  foam." 

She  listened  as  if  in  a  dream.  He  had  suc- 
ceeded so  well  in  his  effort  to  drive  back  the 
flood  of  his  passion  that  his  life  itself  seemed  to 
run  with  it  out  of  his  body.  At  that  moment 
he  felt  as  one  dead  speaking.  But  the  headlong 
w^ave  returning  with  tenfold  force  flung  him 
on  her  suddenly,  with  open  arms  and  blazing 
eyes.  She  found  herself  like  a  feather  in  his 
grasp,  helpless,  unable  to  struggle,  with  her 
feet  off  the  ground.  But  this  contact  with  her, 
maddening  like  too  much  felicity,  destroyed  its 
own  end.  Fire  ran  through  his  veins,  turned 
his  passion  to  ashes,  burnt  him  out  and  left 


114  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

him  empty,  without  force — almost  without 
desire.  He  let  her  go  before  she  could  cry  out. 
And  she  was  so  used  to  the  forms  of  repression 
enveloping,  softening  the  crude  impulses  of  old 
humanity  that  she  no  longer  believedlh  their 
existence  as  if  it  were  an  exploded  legend. 
She  did  not  recognise  what  had  happened  to 
her.  She  came  safe  out  of  his  arms  without  a 
struggle,  not  even  having  felt  afraid. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this.f^"  she  said, 
outraged  but  calm  in  a  scornful  way. 

He  got  down  on  his  knees  in  silence,  bent  low 
to  her  very  feet,  while  she  looked  down  at  him,  a 
little  surprised,  without  animosity,  as  if  merely 
curious  to  see  what  he  would  do.  Then,  while 
he  remained  bowed  to  the  ground  pressing  the 
hem  of  her  skirt  to  his  lips,  she  made  a  slight 
movement.     He  got  up. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Were  you  ever  so  much 
mine  what  could  I  do  with  you  without  your 
consent .f^  No.  You  don't  conquer  a  wraith, 
cold  mist,  stuff  of  dreams,  illusion.  It  must 
come  to  you  and  cling  to  your  breast.  And 
then!     Oh!     And  then!" 

All  ecstasy,  all  expression  went  out  of  his  face. 

"Mr.  Renouard,"  she  said,  "though  you  can 
have  no  claim  on  my  consideration  after  having 
decoyed  me  here  for  the  vile  purpose,  apparently. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  115 

of  gloating  over  me  as  your  possible  prey,  I  will 
tell  you  that  I  am  not  perhaps  the  extraordinary 
being  you  think  I  am.  You  may  believe  me. 
Here  I  stand  for  truth  itself." 

*' What's  that  to  me  what  you  are?"  he  an- 
swered. "At  a  sign  from  you  I  would  climb  up 
to  the  seventh  heaven  to  bring  you  down  to 
earth  for  my  own — and  if  I  saw  you  steeped  to 
the  lips  in  vice,  in  crime,  in  mud,  I  would  go 
after  you,  take  you  to  my  arms — wear  you  for 
an  incomparable  jewel  on  my  breast.  And 
that's  love — true  love — the  gift  and  the  curse 
of  the  gods.     There  is  no  other." 

The  truth  vibrating  in  his  voice  made  her 
recoil  slightly,  for  she  was  not  fit  to  hear  it — 
not  even  a  little — not  even  one  single  time  in  her 
life.  It  was  revolting  to  her;  and  in  her  trouble, 
perhaps  prompted  by  the  suggestion  of  his 
name  or  to  soften  the  harshness  of  expression, 
for  she  was  obscurely  moved,  she  spoke  to  him 
in  French. 

^'Assez !     J'ai  horreur  de  tout  cela,^^  she  said. 

He  was  white  to  his  very  lips,  but  he  was 
trembling  no  more.  The  dice  had  been  cast, 
and  not  even  violence  could  alter  the  throw. 
She  passed  by  him  unbendingly,  and  he  followed 
her  down  the  path.  After  a  time  she  heard  him 
saying: 


116  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

"And  your  dream  is  to  influence  a  human 
destiny?" 

"Yes!"  she  answered  curtly,  unabashed,  with 
a  woman's  complete  assurance. 

"Then  you  may  rest  content.  You  have 
done  it." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly.  But 
just  before  reaching  the  end  of  the  path  she 
relented,  stopped,  and  went  back  to  him. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  are  very  anxious  for 
people  to  know  how  near  you  came  to  absolute 
turpitude.  You  may  rest  easy  on  that  point. 
I  shall  speak  to  my  father,  of  course,  and  we 
will  agree  to  say  that  he  has  died — nothing 
more." 

"Yes,"  said  Renouard  in  a  lifeless  voice. 
*'He  is  dead.  His  very  ghost  shall  be  done 
with  presently." 

She  went  on,  but  he  remained  standing  stock 
still  in  the  dusk.  She  had  already  reached  the 
three  palms  when  she  heard  behind  her  a  loud 
peal  of  laughter,  cynical  and  joyless,  such  as 
is  heard  in  smoking-rooms  at  the  end  of  a 
scandalous  story.  It  made  her  feel  positively 
faint  for  a  moment. 


XI 


Slowly  a  complete  darkness  enveloped  Geoffrey 
Renoiiard.  His  resolution  had  failed  him'.  In- 
stead of  following  Felicia  into  the  house,  he  had 
stopped  under  the  three  palms,  and  leaning 
against  a  smooth  trunk  had  abandoned  himself 
to  a  sense  of  an  immense  deception  and  the  feel- 
ing of  extreme  fatigue.  This  walk  up  the  hill  and 
down  again  was  like  the  supreme  effort  of  an 
explorer  trying  to  penetrate  the  interior  of  an  un- 
known country,  the  secret  of  which  is  too  well  de- 
fended by  its  cruel  and  barren  nature.  Decoyed 
by  a  mirage,  he  had  gone  too  far — so  far  that 
there  was  no  going  back.  His  strength  was  at  an 
end.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  to  give 
up,  and  with  a  sort  of  despairing  self-possession 
he  tried  to  understand  the  cause  of  the  defeat. 
He  did  not  ascribe  it  to  that  absurd  dead  man. 

The  hesitating  shadow  of  Luiz  approached 
him  unnoticed  till  it  spoke  timidly.  Renouard 
started. 

"Eh?  What.^  Dinner  waiting?  You  must  say 
I  beg  to  be  excused.     I  can't  come.     But  I  shall 

117 


118         THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

see  them  to-morrow  morning,  at  the  landing 
place.  Take  your  orders  from  the  professor  as 
to  the  sailing  of  the  schooner.     Go  now." 

Luiz,  dumbfounded,  retreated  into  the  dark- 
ness. Renouard  did  not  move,  but  hours  after- 
ward, like  the  bitter  fruit  of  his  immobility,  the 
words:  "I  had  nothing  to  offer  to  her  vanity," 
came  from  his  lips  in  the  silence  of  the  island. 
And  it  was  then  only  that  he  stirred,  only  to 
wear  the  night  out  in  restless  tramping  up  and 
down  the  various  paths  of  the  plantation.  Luiz, 
whose  sleep  was  made  light  by  the  consciousness 
of  some  impending  change,  heard  footsteps  pass- 
ing by  his  hut,  the  firm  tread  of  the  master;  and 
turning  on  his  mats  emitted  a  faint  Tse!  Tse! 
Tse!  of  deep  concern. 

Lights  had  been  burning  in  the  bungalow  al- 
most all  through  the  night;  and  with  the  first 
sign  of  day  began  the  bustle  of  departure.  House 
boys  walked  processionally  carrying  suitcases 
and  dressing-bags  down  to  the  schooner's  boat, 
which  came  to  the  landing  place  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden.  Just  as  the  rising  sun  threw  its 
golden  nimbus  around  the  purple  shape  of  the 
headland,  the  Planter  of  Malata  was  perceived 
pacing  bareheaded  the  curve  of  the  little  bay. 
He  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  sailing- 
master  of  the  schooner,  then  remained  by  the 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA         119 

boat,  standing  very  upright,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  waiting. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  Into  the  cool,  over- 
shadowed garden  the  professor  descended  first, 
and  came  jauntily  down  the  path  in  a  lively 
cracking  of  small  shells.  With  his  closed  par- 
asol hooked  on  his  forearm,  and  a  book  in  his 
hand,  he  resembled  a  banal  tourist  more  than 
was  permissible  to  a  man  of  his  unique  distinc- 
tion. He  waved  the  disengaged  arm  from  a  dis- 
tance, but  at  close  quarters,  arrested  before 
Renouard's  immobility,  he  made  no  offer  to 
shake  hands.  He  seemed  to  appraise  the  aspect 
of  the  man  with  a  sharp  glance,  and  made  up  his 
mind. 

"We  are  going  back  by  Suez,"  he  began  al- 
most boisterously.  "  I  have  been  looking  up  the 
sailing  lists.  If  the  zephyrs  of  your  Pacific  are 
only  moderately  propitious  I  think  we  are  sure 
to  catch  the  mail  boat  due  in  Marseilles  on  the 
18th  of  March.  This  will  suit  me  excellently 
.  .  .  ."  He  lowered  his  tone.  "My  dear 
young  friend,  I'm  deeply  grateful  to  you." 

Renouard's  set  lips  moved. 

"Why  are  you  grateful  to  me?  " 

"Ah?  Why?  In  the  first  place  you  might 
have  made  us  miss  the  next  boat,  mightn't  you? 
.     .     .     I  don't  thank  you  for  your  hospitality. 


120  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

You  can't  be  angry  with  me  for  saying  that  I  am 
truly  thankful  to  escape  from  it.  But  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you  for  what  you  have  done,  and — for 
being  what  you  are." 

It  was  difficult  to  define  the  flavour  of  that 
speech,  but  Renouard  received  it  with  an 
austerely  equivocal  smile.  The  professor  step- 
ping into  the  boat  opened  his  parasol  and  sat 
down  in  the  stern-sheets  waiting  for  the  ladies. 
No  sound  of  human  voice  broke  the  fresh  silence 
of  the  morning  while  they  walked  the  broad 
path,  Miss  Moorsom  a  little  in  advance  of  her 
aunt. 

When  she  came  abreast  of  him  Renouard 
raised  his  head. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Renouard,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  meaning  to  pass  on;  but  there  was  such  a 
look  of  entreaty  in  the  blue  gleam  of  his  sunken 
eyes  that  after  an  imperceptible  hesitation  she 
Uid  her  hand,  which  was  ungloved,  in  his  ex- 
tended palm. 

"Will  you  condescend  to  remember  me.^^"  he 
asked,  while  an  emotion  with  which  she  was 
angry  made  her  pale  cheeks  flush  and  her  black 
eyes  sparkle. 

"This  is  a  strange  request  for  you  to  make," 
she  said,  exaggerating  the  coldness  of  her  tone. 

"  Is  it?    Impudent,  perhaps.    Yet  I  am  not  so 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  121 

guilty  as  you  think;  and  bear  in  mind  that  to  me 
you  can  never  make  reparation." 

"Reparation?  To  you!  It  is  you  who  can 
offer  me  no  reparation  for  the  offence  against  my 
feehngs — and  my  person;  for  what  reparation 
can  be  adequate  for  your  odious  and  ridiculous 
plot  so  scornful  in  its  implication,  so  humiliating 
to  my  pride.  No!  I  don't  want  to  remember 
you." 

Unexpectedly,  with  a  tightening  grip,  he  pulled 
her  nearer  to  him,  and  looking  into  her  eyes  with 
fearless  despair — 

"You'll  have  to.  .  .  .  I  shall  haunt  you," 
he  said  firmly. 

Her  hand  was  wrenched  out  of  his  grasp  be- 
fore he  had  time  to  release  it.  Felicia  Moorsom 
stepped  into  the  boat,  sat  down  by  the  side  of 
her  father,  and  breathed  tenderly  on  her  crushed 
fingers. 

The  professor  gave  her  a  sidelong  look — noth- 
ing more.  But  the  professor's  sister,  yet  on 
shore,  had  put  up  her  long-handle  double  eye- 
glass to  look  at  the  scene.  She  dropped  it  with  a 
faint  rattle. 

"I've  never  in  my  life  heard  anything  so  crude 
said  to  a  lady,"  she  murmured,  passing  before 
Renouard  with  a  perfectly  erect  head.  When,  a 
moment    afterward,    softening    suddenly,    she 


122  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

turned  to  throw  a  good-bye  to  that  young  man, 
she  saw  only  his  back  in  the  distance  moving 
toward  the  bungalow.  She  watched  him  go  in 
— amazed — before  she  too  left  the  soil  of  Malata. 

Nobody  disturbed  Renouard  in  that  room 
where  he  had  shut  himself  in  to  breathe  the 
evanescent  perfume  of  her  who  for  him  was  no 
more,  till  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  half- 
caste  was  heard  on  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

He  wanted  the  master  to  know  that  the 
trader  Janet  was  just  entering  the  cove. 

Renouard' s  strong  voice  on  his  side  of  the 
door  gave  him  most  unexpected  instructions. 
He  was  to  pay  off  the  boys  with  the  cash  in  the 
office  and  arrange  with  the  captain  of  the  Janet 
to  take  every  worker  away  from  Malata,  re- 
turning them  to  their  respective  homes.  An 
order  on  the  Dunster  firm  would  be  given  to  him 
in  payment. 

And  again  the  silence  of  the  bungalow  re- 
mained unbroken  till,  next  morning,  the  half- 
caste  came  to  report  that  everything  was  done. 
The  plantation  boys  were  embarking  now. 

Through  a  crack  in  the  door  a  hand  thrust  at 
him  a  piece  of  paper,  and  the  door  slammed  to  so 
sharply  that  Luiz  stepped  back.  Then  approach- 
ing cringingly  the  keyhole,  in  a  propitiatory  tone 
he  asked : 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  123 

"Do  I  go  too,  master?" 

*'Yes.     You  too.     Everybody." 

"Master  stop  here  alone .'^" 

Silence.  And  the  half-caste's  eyes  grew  wide 
with  wonder.  But  he  also,  like  those  "  ignorant 
savages,"  the  plantation  boys,  was  only  too  glad 
to  leave  an  island  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  a 
white  man.  He  backed  away  noiselessly  from 
the  mysterious  silence  in  that  closed  room,  and 
only  in  the  very  doorway  of  the  bungalow 
allowed  himself  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings  by  a 
deprecatory  and  pained — 

"Tse!     Tse!     Tse!" 


XII 

The  Moorsoms  did  manage  to  catch  the  home- 
ward mail  boat  all  right,  but  had  only  twenty- 
four  hours  in  town.  Thus  the  sentimental  Willie 
could  not  see  very  much  of  them.  This  did  not 
prevent  him  afterward  from  relating  at  great 
length,  with  manly  tears  in  his  eyes,  how  poor 
Miss  Moorsom — the  fashionable  and  clever 
beauty — found  her  betrothed  in  Malata  only  to 
see  him  die  in  her  arms.  Most  people  were 
deeply  touched  by  the  sad  story.  It  was  the  talk 
of  a  good  many  days. 

But  the  all-knowing  Editor,  Renouard's  only 
friend  and  crony,  wanted  to  know  more  than  the 
rest  of  the  world.  From  professional  inconti- 
nence, perhaps,  he  thirsted  for  a  full  cup  of 
harrowing  detail.  And  when  he  noticed  Re- 
nouard's schooner  lying  in  port  day  after  day  he 
sought  the  sailing  master  to  learn  the  reason. 
The  man  told  him  that  such  were  his  instruc- 
tions. He  had  been  ordered  to  lie  there  a  month 
before  returning  to  Malata.      And  the  month 

124 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  125 

was  nearly  up.      "I  will  ask  you  to  give  me  a 
passage,"  said  the  Editor. 

He  landed  in  the  morning  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden  and  found  peace,  stillness,  sunshine 
reigning  everywhere,  the  doors  and  windows  of 
the  bungalow  standing  wide  open,  no  sight  of  a 
human  being  anywhere,  the  plants  growing  rank 
and  tall  in  the  deserted  fields.  For  hours  the 
Editor  and  the  schooner's  crew,  excited  by  the 
mystery,  roamed  over  the  island  shouting  Re- 
nouard's  name;  and  at  last  set  themselves  in 
grim  silence  to  explore  systematically  the  un- 
cleared bush  and  the  deeper  ravines  in  search  of 
his  corpse.  What  had  happened .^^  Had  he  been,^ 
murdered  by  the  boys  ?  Or  had  he  simply,  capri- 
cious and  secretive,  abandoned  his  plantation 
taking  the  people  with  him.  It  was  impossible 
to  tell  what  had  happened.  At  last,  toward  the 
decline  of  the  day,  the  Editor  and  the  sailing 
master  discovered  a  track  of  sandals  crossing 
a  strip  of  sandy  beach  on  the  north  shore  of 
the  bay.  Following  this  track  fearfully,  they 
passed  round  the  spur  of  the  headland,  and 
there  on  a  large  stone  found  the  sandals,  Re- 
nouard's  white  jacket,  and  the  Malay  sarong 
of  chequered  pattern  which  the  planter  of 
Malata  was  well  known  to  wear  when  going 
to  bathe.      These  things  made  a  little  heap. 


126  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

and  the  sailor  remarked,  after  gazing  at  it  in 
silence — 

"Birds  have  been  hovering  over  this  for  many 
a  day." 

*'He's  gone  bathing  and  got  drowned,"  cried 
the  Editor  in  dismay. 

"I  doubt  it,  sir.  If  he  had  been  drowned 
anywhere  within  a  mile  from  the  shore  the  body 
would  have  been  washed  out  on  the  reefs.  And 
our  boats  have  found  nothing  so  far." 

Nothing  was  ever  found — and  Renouard's 
disappearance  remained  in  the  main  inexpli- 
cable. For  to  whom  could  it  have  occurred  that 
a  man  would  set  out  calmly  to  swim  beyond  the 
confines  of  life — with  a  steady  stroke — his 
eyes  fixed  on  a  star! 

Next  evening,  from  the  receding  schooner, 
the  Editor  looked  back  for  the  last  time  at  the 
deserted  island.  A  black  cloud  hung  listlessly 
over  the  high  rock  on  the  middle  hill ;  and  under 
the  mysterious  silence  of  that  shadow  Malata 
lay  mournful,  with  an  air  of  anguish  in  the  wild 
sunset,  as  if  remembering  the  heart  that  was 
broken  there. 

Dec,  1913. 


THE  PARTNER 


THE  PARTNER 

"And  that  be  hanged  for  a  silly  yarn.  The 
boatmen  here  in  Westport  have  been  telling 
this  lie  to  the  summer  visitors  for  years.  The 
sort  that  gets  taken  out  for  a  row  at  a  shilling 
a  head — and  asks  foolish  questions — must  be 
told  something  to  pass  the  time  away.  D'ye 
know  anything  more  silly  than  being  pulled  in 
a  boat  along  a  beach  .^^  .  .  .  It's  like  drink- 
ing weak  lemonade  when  you  aren't  thirsty. 
I  don't  know  why  they  do  it!  They  don't 
even  get  sick." 

A  forgotten  glass  of  beer  stood  at  his  elbow; 
the  locality  was  a  small  respectable  smoking- 
room  of  a  small  respectable  hotel,  and  a  taste 
for  forming  chance  acquaintances  accounts 
for  my  sitting  up  late  with  him.  His  great, 
flat,  furrowed  cheeks  were  shaven;  a  thick, 
square  wisp  of  white  hairs  hung  from  his  chin; 
its  waggling  gave  additional  point  to  his  deep 
utterance;  and  his  general  contempt  for  man- 
kind with  its  activities  and  moralities  was  ex- 
pressed in  the  rakish  set  of  his  big  soft  hat  of 


130  THE  PARTNER 

black  felt  with  a  large  rim,  which  he  kept  al- 
ways on  his  head. 

His  appearance  was  that  of  an  old  adventurer, 
retired  after  many  unholy  experienceO?)Cfcii6 
darkest  parts  of  the  earth;  but  I  had  every 
reason  to  believe  that  he  had  never  been  outside 
England.  From  a  casual  remark  somebody 
dropped  I  gathered  that  in  his  early  days  he 
must  have  been  somehow  connected  with  ship- 
ping— with  ships  in  docks.  Of  individuality 
he  had  plenty.  And  it  was  this  which  attracted 
my  attention  at  first.  But  he  was  not  easy  to 
classify,  and  before  the  end  of  the  week  I  gave 
him  up  with  the  vague  definition,  "an  imposing 
old  ruffian." 

One  rainy  afternoon,  oppressed  by  infinite 
boredom,  I  went  into  the  smoking-room.  He 
was  sitting  there  in  absolute  immobility,  which 
was  really  fakir-like  and  impressive.  I  began 
to  wonder  what  could  be  the  associations  of 
that  sort  of  man,  his  "milieu,"  his  private  con- 
nections, his  views,  his  morality,  his  friends,  and 
even  his  wife — when  to  my  surprise  he  opened 
a  conversation  in  a  deep,  muttering  voice. 

I  must  say  that  since  he  had  learned  from 
somebody  that  I  was  a  writer  of  stories  he  had 
been  acknowledging  my  existence  by  means  of 
some  vague  growls  in  the  morning. 


THE  PARTNER  131 

He  was  essentially  a  taciturn  man.  There  was 
an  effect  of  rudeness  in  his  fragmentary  sen- 
tences. It  was  some  time  before  I  discovered  that 
what  he  would  be  at  was  the  process  by  which 
stories — stories  for  periodicals — were  produced. 

What  could  one  say  to  a  fellow  like  that? 
But  I  was  bored  to  death;  the  weather  continued 
Impossible;  and  I  resolved  to  be  amiable. 

"And  so  you  make  these  tales  up  on  your 
own.  How  do  they  ever  come  into  your  head?  " 
he  rumbled. 

I  explained  that  one  generally  got  a  hint  for 
a  tale. 

"What  sort  of  hint?" 

"Well,  for  instance,"  I  said,  "I  got  myself 
rowed  out  to  the  rocks  the  other  day.  My  boat- 
man told  me  of  the  wreck  on  these  rocks  nearly 
twenty  years  ago.  That  could  be  used  as  a  hint 
for  a  mainly  descriptive  bit  of  story  with  some 
such  title  as  *In  the  Channel,'  for  instance." 

It  was  then  that  he  flew  out  at  the  boatmen 
and  the  summer  visitors  who  listen  to  their 
tales.  Without  moving  a  muscle  of  his  face 
he  emitted  a  powerful  "Rot,"  from  somewhere 
out  of  the  depths  of  his  chest,  and  went  on  in 
his  hoarse,  fragmentary  mumble.  "Stare  at 
the  silly  rocks — nod  their  silly  heads  [the  visitors 
I  presume].     What  do  they  think  a  man  is — 


132  THE  PARTNER 

blown-out   paper   bag   or   what? — go  off  pop 

like  that  when  he's  hit Damn  silly    yarn 

Hint  indeed!     .     .     .     A  lie?" 

You  must  imagine  this  statuesque  ruffian 
enhaloed  in  the  black  rim  of  his  hat,  letting  all 
this  out  as  an  old  dog  growls  sometimes,  with 
his  head  up  and  staring-away  eyes. 

"Indeed!"  I  exclaimed.  "Well,  but  even  if 
untrue  it  is  a  hint,  enabling  me  to  see  these 
rocks,  this  gale  they  speak  of,  the  heavy  seas, 
etc.,  etc.,  in  relation  to  mankind.  The  struggle 
against  natural  forces  and  the  effect  of  the  issue 
on  at  least  one,  say,  exalted " 

He  interrupted  me  by  an  aggressive — 

"  Would  truth  be  any  good  to  you?  " 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  say,"  I  answered  cau- 
tiously. "It's  said  that  truth  is  stranger  than 
fiction." 

"Who  says  that?"  he  mouthed. 

"Oh!     Nobody  in  particular." 

I  turned  to  the  window;  for  the  contemptuous 
beggar  was  oppressive  to  look  at,  with  his 
immovable  arm  on  the  table.  I  suppose  my 
unceremonious  manner  provoked  him  to  a 
comparatively  long  speech. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  silly  lot  of  rocks? 
Like  plums  in  a  slice  of  cold  pudding." 

I  was  looking  at  them — an  acre  or  more  of 


THE  PARTNER  133 

black  dots  scattered  on  the  steel-grey  shades  of 
the  level  sea,  under  the  uniform  gossamer  grey 
mist,  with  a  formless  brighter  patch  in  one  place 
— the  veiled  whiteness  of  the  cliff  coming  through 
like  a  diffused,  mysterious  radiance.  It  was 
a  delicate  and  wonderful  picture,  something  ex- 
pressive, suggestive,  and  desolate,  a  symphony 
in  grey  and  black — a  Whistler.  But  the  next 
thing  said  by  the  voice  behind  me  made  me  turn 
round.  It  growled  out  contempt  for  all  asso- 
ciated notions  of  roaring  seas  with  concise 
energy,  then  went  on — 

"I — no  such  foolishness — looking  at  the  rocks 
out  there — more  likely  call  to  mind  an  office — I 
used  to  look  in  sometimes  at  one  time — office 
in  London — one  of  them  small  streets  behind 
Cannon  Street  Station.     .     .     ." 

He  was  very  deliberate;  not  jerky,  only  frag- 
mentary; at  times  profane. 

"That's  a  rather  remote  connection,"  I  ob- 
served, approaching  him. 

"Connection?  To  Hades  with  your  connec- 
tions.    It  was  an  accident.'* 

"Still,"  I  said,  "an  accident  has  its  backward 
and  forward  connections,  which,  if  they  could 
be  set  forth " 

Without  moving  he  seemed  to  lend  an  atten- 
tive ear. 


134  THE  PARTNER 

**Aye!  Set  forth.  That's  perhaps  what  you 
could  do.  Couldn't  you  now?  There's  no  sea 
life  in  this  connection.  But  you  can  put  it  in 
out  of  your  head — if  you  like." 

"Yes.  I  could,  if  necessary,"  I  said.  "Some- 
times it  pays  to  put  in  a  lot  out  of  one's  head, 
and  sometimes  it  doesn't.  I  mean  that  the 
story  isn't  worth  it.     Everything's  in  that." 

It  amused  me  to  talk  to  him  like  this.  He  re- 
flected audibly  that  he  guessed  story-writers 
were  out  after  money  like  the  rest  of  the  world 
which  had  to  live  by  its  wits:  and  that  it  was 
extraordinary  how  far  people  who  were  out  after 
money  would  go.     .     .     .     Some  of  them. 

Then  he  made  a  sally  against  sea  life.  Silly 
sort  of  life,  he  called  it.  No  opportunities,  no 
experience,  no  variety,  nothing.  Some  fine 
men  came  out  of  it — he  admitted — but  no  more 
chance  in  the  world  if  put  to  it  than  fly.  Kids. 
So  Captain  Harry  Dunbar.  Good  sailor.  Great 
name  as  a  skipper.  Big  man;  short  side- whiskers 
going  grey,  fine  face,  loud  voice.  A  good  fel- 
low, but  no  more  up  to  people's  tricks  than  a 
baby. 

"That's  the  captain  of  the  Sagamore  you're 
talking  about,"  I  said  confidently. 

After  a  low,  scornful  "Of  course,"  he  seemed 
now  to  hold  on  the  wall  with  his  fixed  stare  the 


THE  PARTNER  135 

vision  of  that  city  office,  "at  the  back  of  Can- 
non Street  Station,"  while  he  growled  and 
mouthed  a  fragmentary  description,  jerking  his 
chin  up  now  and  then,  as  if  angry. 

It  was,  according  to  his  account,  a  modest 
place  of  business,  not  shady  in  any  sense,  but 
out  of  the  way,  in  a  small  street  now  rebuilt 
from  end  to  end.  "  Seven  doors  from  the  Chesh- 
ire Cat  public  house  under  the  railway  bridge. 
I  used  to  take  my  lunch  there  when  my  business 
called  me  to  the  city.  Cloete  would  come  in 
to  have  his  chop  and  make  the  girl  laugh.  No 
need  to  talk  much,  either,  for  that.  Nothing 
but  the  way  he  would  twinkle  his  spectacles  on 
you  and  give  a  twitch  of  his  thick  mouth  was 
enough  to  start  you  off  before  he  began  one  of 
his  little  tales.  Funny  fellow,  Cloete.  C-l-o- 
e-t-e — Cloete." 

"What  was  he — a  Dutchman.^"  I  asked,  not 
seeing  the  least  what  all  this  had  to  do  with 
the  Westport  boatmen  and  the  Westport  sum- 
mer visitors  and  this  extraordinary  old  fellow's 
irritable  view  of  them  as  liars  and  fools.  "Devil 
knows'"  he  grunted,  his  eyes  on  the  wall  as  if 
not  to  miss  a  single  movement  of  a  cinemato- 
graph picture.  "Spoke  nothing  but  English, 
anyway.  First  I  saw  him — comes  off  a  ship 
in    dock    from    the    States — passenger.      Asks 


136  THE  PARTNER 

me  for  a  small  hotel  near  by.  Wanted  to  be 
quiet  and  have  a  look  round  for  a  few  days.  I 
took  him  to  a  place — friend  of  mine.  .  .  . 
Next  time — in  the  City — Hallo!  You're  very 
obliging — have  a  drink.  Talks  plenty  about 
himself.  Been  years  in  the  States.  All  sorts 
of  business  all  over  the  place.  With  some 
patent  medicine  people,  too.  Travels.  Writes 
advertisements  and  all  that.  Tells  me  funny 
stories.  Tall,  loose-limbed  fellow.  Black  hair 
up  on  end,  like  a  brush;  long  face,  long  legs, 
long  arms,  twinkle  in  his  specs,  jocular  way  of 
speaking — in  a  low  voice.     .     .     .     See  that?" 

I  nodded,  but  he  was  not  looking  at  me. 

"Never  laughed  so  much  in  my  life.  The 
beggar — would  make  you  laugh  telling  you  how 
he  skinned  his  own  father.  He  was  up  to  that, 
too.  A  man  who's  been  in  the  patent-medicine 
trade  will  be  up  to  anything  from  pitch-and-toss 
to  wilful  murder.  And  that's  a  bit  of  hard  truth 
for  you.  Don't  mind  what  they  do — think  they 
can  carry  off  anything  and  talk  themselves  out  of 
anything — all  the  world's  a  fool  to  them.  Busi- 
ness man,  too,  Cloete.  Came  over  with  a  few 
hundred  pounds.  Looking  for  something  to  do 
— in  a  quiet  way.  Nothing  like  the  old  country, 
after  all,  says  he.  .  .  .  And  so  we  part — I  with 
more  drinks  in  me  than  I  was  used  to.    After  a 


THE  PARTNER  137 

time,  perhaps  six  months  or  so,  I  run  up  against 
him  again  in  Mr.  George  Dunbar's  office.  Yes, 
that  office.  It  wasn't  often  that  I  .  .  .  How- 
ever, there  was  a  bit  of  his  cargo  in  a  ship  in  dock 
that  I  wanted  to  ask  Mr.  George  about.  In 
comes  Cloete  out  of  the  room  at  the  back  with 
some  papers  in  his  hand.  Partner.  You  under- 
stand.?^" 

"Aha!"  I  said.     "The  few  hundred  pounds." 

"And  that  tongue  of  his,"  he  grow^led.  "Don't 
forget  that  tongue.  Some  of  his  tales  must  have 
opened  George  Dunbar's  eyes  a  bit  as  to  what 
business  means." 

"A  plausible  fellow,"  I  suggested. 

"H'm!  You  must  have  it  in  your  own  way — 
of  course.  Well.  Partner.  George  Dunbar  puts 
his  top-hat  on  and  tells  me  to  wait  a  moment. 
.  .  .  George  always  looked  as  though  he 
were  making  a  few  thousands  a  year — a  city 
swell.  .  .  .  Come  along,  old  man !  And  he 
and  Captain  Harry  go  out  together — some  busi- 
ness with  a  solicitor  round  the  corner.  Captain 
Harry,  when  he  was  in  England,  used  to  turn  up 
in  his  brother's  office  regularly  about  twelve. 
Sat  in  a  corner  like  a  good  boy,  reading  the  paper 
and  smoking  his  pipe.  So  they  go  out.  .  .  . 
Model  brothers,  says  Cloete — two  love-birds — I 
am  looking  after  the  tinned-fruit  side  of  this  cozy 


138  THE  PARTNER 

little  show.  .  .  .  Gives  me  that  sort  of  talk. 
Then  by-and-by:  What  sort  of  old  thing  is  that 
Sagamore  y  Finest  ship  out — eh?  I  dare  say  all 
ships  are  fine  to  you.  You  live  by  them.  I  tell 
you  what;  I  would  just  as  soon  put  my  money 
into  an  old  stocking.     Sooner!" 

He  drew  a  breath,  and  I  noticed  his  hand, 
lying  loosely  on  the  table,  close  slowly  into  a  fist. 
In  that  immovable  man  it  was  startling,  omi- 
nous, like  the  famed  nod  of  the  Commander. 

"So,  already  at  that  time — note — already," 
he  growled. 

"But  hold  on,"  I  interrupted.  "The  Saga- 
more belonged  to  Mundy  and  Rogers,  I've  been 
told." 

He  snorted  contemptuously.  "Damn  boat- 
men— know  no  better.  Flew  the  firm's  house-flag. 
That's  another  thing.  Favour.  It  was  like  this : 
When  old  man  Dunbar  died,  Captain  Harry  was 
already  in  command  with  the  firm.  George 
chucked  the  bank  he  was  clerking  in — to  go  on 
his  own  with  what  there  was  to  share  after  the 
old  chap.  George  was  a  smart  man.  Started 
warehousing;  then  two  or  three  things  at  a  time: 
wood-pulp,  preserved-fruit  trade,  and  so  on. 
And  Captain  Harry  let  him  have  his  share  to 
work  with.    .    .    .    I  am  provided  for  in  my  ship, 


THE  PARTNER  139 

he  says.  .  .  .  But  by-and-by  Mundy  and 
Rogers  began  to  sell  out  to  foreigners  all  their 
ships — go  into  steam  right  away.  Captain 
Harry  gets  very  upset — lose  command,  part 
with  the  ship  he  was  fond  of — very  wretched. 
Just  then,  so  it  happened,  the  brothers  came  in 
for  some  money — an  old  woman  died  or  some- 
thing. Quite  a  tidy  bit.  Then  young  George 
says :  There's  enough  between  us  two  to  buy  the 

Sagamore  with But  you'll  need  more 

money  for  your  business,  cries  Captain  Harry — 
and  the  other  laughs  at  him:  My  business  is 
going  on  all  right.  Why,  I  can  go  out  and  make 
a  handful  of  sovereigns  while  you  are  trying  to 
get  your  pipe  to  draw,  old  man.  .  .  .  Mundy 
and  Rogers  very  friendly  about  it:  Certainly, 
Captain.  And  we  will  manage  her  for  you,  if  you 
like,  as  if  she  were  still  our  own.  .  .  .  Why, 
with  a  connection  like  that  it  was  a  good  invest- 
ment to  buy  that  ship.  Good!  Aye,  at  the 
time." 

The  turning  of  his  head  slightly  toward  me  at 
this  point  was  like  a  sign  of  strong  feeling  in  any 
other  man. 

"You'll  mind  that  this  was  long  before  Cloete 
came  into  it  at  all,"  he  muttered  warningly. 

"Yes.  I  will  mind,"  I  said.  "We  generally 
say :  some  years  passed.     That's  soon  done." 


140  THE  PARTNER 

He  eyed  me  for  a  while  silently  in  an  unseeing 
way,  as  if  engrossed  in  the  thought  of  the  years 
so  easily  dealt  with;  his  own  years,  too,  they 
were,  the  years  before  and  the  years  (not  so 
many)  after  Cloete  came  upon  the  scene.  When 
he  began  to  speak  again,  I  discerned  his  inten- 
tion to  point  out  to  me,  in  his  obscure  and  graphic 
manner,  the  influence  on  George  Dunbar  of 
long  association  with  Cloete's  easy  moral  stand- 
ards, unscrupulously  persuasive  gift  of  humour 
(funny  fellow),  and  adventurously  reckless  dis- 
position. He  desired  me  anxiously  to  elaborate 
this  view,  and  I  assured  him  it  was  quite  within 
my  powers.  He  wished  me  also  to  understand 
that  George's  business  had  its  ups  and  downs 
(the  other  brother  was  meantime  sailing  to  and 
fro  serenely);  that  he  got  into  low  water  at 
times,  which  worried  him  rather,  because  he  had 
married  a  young  wife  with  expensive  tastes. 
He  was  having  a  pretty  anxious  time  of  it  gen- 
erally; and  just  then  Cloete  ran  up  in  the  city 
somewhere  against  a  man  working  a  patent 
medicine  (the  fellow's  old  trade)  with  some 
success,  but  which,  with  capital,  capital  to  the 
tune  of  thousands  to  be  spent  with  both  hands  on 
advertising,  could  be  turned  into  a  great  thing — 
infinitely  better-paying  than  a  gold-mine.  Cloete 
became  excited  at  the  possibilities  of  that  sort  of 


THE  PARTNER  141 

business,  in  which  he  was  an  expert.  I  under- 
stood that  George's  partner  was  all  on  fire  from 
the  contact  with  this  unique  opportunity. 

"So  he  goes  in  every  day  into  George's  room 
about  eleven,  and  sings  that  tune  till  George 
gnashes  his  teeth  with  rage.  Do  shut  up. 
What's  the  good.^  No  money.  Hardly  any  to 
go  on  with,  let  alone  pouring  thousands  into 
advertising.  Never  dare  propose  to  his  brother 
Harry  to  sell  the  ship.  Couldn't  think  of  it. 
Worry  him  to  death.  It  would  be  like  the  end 
of  the  world  coming.  And  certainly  not  for  a 
business  of  that  kind!  ...  Do  you  think 
it  would  be  a  swindle?  asks  Cloete,  twitching  his 
mouth.  .  .  .  George  owns  up :  No — would  be 
no  better  than  a  squeamish  ass  if  he  thought 
that,  after  all  these  years  in  business. 

"  Cloete  looks  at  him  hard—  Never  thought 
of  selling  the  ship.  Expected  the  blamed  old 
thing  wouldn't  fetch  half  her  insured  value  by 
this  time.  Then  George  flies  out  at  him.  What's 
the  meaning,  then,  of  these  silly  jeers  at  ship- 
owning  for  the  last  three  weeks?  Had  enough 
of  them,  anyhow. 

"Angry  at  having  his  mouth  made  to  water, 
see.  Cloete  don't  get  excited.  ...  I  am  no 
squeamish  ass,  either,  says  he,  very  slowly. 
"Tisn't  selling  your  old  Sagamore  wants.     The 


142  THE  PARTNER 

blamed  thing  wants  tomahawking  (seems  the 
name  Sagamore  means  an  Indian  chief  or  some- 
thing. The  figure-head  was  a  half -naked  savage 
with  a  feather  over  one  ear  and  a  hatchet  in  his 
belt).     Tomahawking,  says  he. 

"What  do  you  mean.f^  asks  George. 
Wrecking — it  could  be  managed  with  perfect 
safety,  goes  on  Cloete — your  brother  would  then 
put  in  his  share  of  insurance  money.  Needn't 
tell  him  exactly  what  for.  He  thinks  you're  the 
smartest  business  man  that  ever  lived.  Make 
his  fortune,  too.  .  .  .  George  grips  the  desk 
with  both  hands  in  his  rage.  .  .  .  You 
think  my  brother's  a  man  to  cast  away  his  ship 
on  purpose.  I  wouldn't  even  dare  think  of  such 
a  thing  in  the  same  room  with  him — the  finest 
fellow  that  ever  lived.  .  .  .  Don't  make  such 
noise;  they'll  hear  you  outside,  says  Cloete;  and 
he  tells  him  that  his  brother  is  the  salted  pattern 
of  all  virtues,  but  all  that's  necessary  is  to  induce 
him  to  stay  ashore  for  a  voyage — for  a  holiday — 
take  a  rest — why  not.^  ...  In  fact,  I  have 
in  view  somebody  up  to  that  sort  of  game — 
Cloete  whispers. 

*' George  nearly  chokes.  .  .  .  So  you  think  I 
am  of  that  sort — you  think  me  capable —  What 
do  you  take  me  for?  .  .  .  He  almost  loses  his 
head,  while  Cloete  keeps  cool,  only  gets  white 


THE  PARTNER  143 

about  the  gills.  ...  I  take  you  for  a  man  who 
will  be  most  cursedly  hard  up  before  long.  .  .  . 
He  goes  to  the  door  and  sends  away  the  clerks — 
there  were  only  two — to  take  their  lunch  hour. 
Comes  back.  .  .  .  What  are  you  indignant 
about  .^  Do  I  want  you  to  rob  the  widow  and 
orphan.^  Why,  man!  Lloyd's  a  corporation,  it 
hasn't  got  a  body  to  starve.  There's  forty  or 
more  of  them  perhaps  who  underwrote  the  lines 
on  that  silly  ship  of  yours.  Not  one  human 
being  would  go  hungry  or  cold  for  it.  They  take 
every  risk  into  consideration.  Everything  I  tell 
you.  .  .  .  That  sort  of  talk.  H'm!  George 
too  upset  to  speak — only  gurgles  and  waves  his 
arms;  so  sudden,  you  see.  The  other,  warming 
his  back  at  the  fire,  goes  on.  Wood-pulp  busi- 
ness next  door  to  a  failure.  Tinned-fruit  trade 
nearly  played  out.  .  .  .  You're  frightened,  he 
says ;  but  the  law  is  only  meant  to  frighten  fools 
away.  .  .  .  And  he  shows  how  safe  casting 
away  that  ship  would  be.  Premiums  paid  for  so 
many,  many  years.  No  shadow  of  suspicion 
could  arise.  And,  dash  it  all!  a  ship  must  meet 
her  end  some  day.     .     .     . 

"I  am  not  frightened.  I  am  indignant,  says 
George  Dunbar. 

"  Cloete  boiling  with  rage  inside.  Chance  of  a 
lifetime — his  chance !   And  he  says  kindly :  Your 


144  THE  PARTNER 

wife'll  be  much  more  indignant  when  you  ask  her 
to  get  out  of  that  pretty  house  of  yours  and  pile 
in  into  a  two-pair  back — with  kids  perhaps, 
too.     .     .     . 

''George  had  no  children.  Married  a  couple 
of  years;  looked  forward  to  a  kid  or  two  very 
much.  Feels  more  upset  than  ever.  Talks  about 
an  honest  man  for  father,  and  so  on.  Cloete 
grins:  You  be  quick  before  they  come,  and  they'll 
have  a  rich  man  for  father,  and  no  one  the  worse 
for  it.     That's  the  beauty  of  the  thing. 

"  George  nearly  cries.  I  believe  he  did  cry  at 
odd  times.  This  went  on  for  weeks.  He 
couldn't  quarrel  with  Cloete.  Couldn't  pay  off 
his  few  hundreds;  and  besides,  he  was  used  to 
have  him  about.  Weak  fellow,  George.  Cloete 
generous,  too.  .  .  .  Don't  think  of  my  little 
pile,  says  he.  Of  course  it's  gone  when  we  have 
to  shut  up.  But  I  don't  care,  he  says. 
And  then  there  was  George's  new  wife.  When 
Cloete  dines  there,  the  beggar  puts  on  a  dress 
suit;  little  woman  liked  it;  .  .  .  Mr.  Cloete, 
my  husband's  partner;  such  a  clever  man,  man 
of  the  world,  so  amusing!  .  .  .  When  he 
dines  there  and  they  are  alone:  Oh,  Mr.  Cloete, 
I  wish  George  would  do  something  to  improve 
our  prospects.  Our  position  is  really  so  medi- 
ocre.    .     .     .     And  Cloete  smiles,  but  isn't  sur- 


THE  PARTNER  145 

prised,  because  he  had  put  all  these  notions  him- 
self into  her  empty  head.  .  .  .  What  your 
husband  wants  is  enterprise,  a  little  audacity. 
You  can  encourage  him  best,  Mrs.  Dunbar. 
.  .  .  She  was  a  silly,  extravagant  little  fool. 
Had  made  George  take  a  house  in  Norwood. 
Live  up  to  a  lot  of  people  better  off  than  them- 
selves. I  saw  her  once;  silk  dress,  pretty  boots, 
all  feathers  and  scent,  pink  face.  More  like  the 
Promenade  at  the  Alhambra  than  a  decent  home, 
it  looked  to  me.  But  some  women  do  get  a  devil 
of  a  hold  on  a  man." 

"Yes,  some  do,"  I  assented.  "Even  when  the 
man  is  the  husband." 

"My  missis,"  he  addressed  me  unexpectedly, 
in  a  solemn,  surprisingly  hollow  tone,  "could 
wind  me  round  her  little  finger.  I  didn't  find 
out  till  she  was  gone.  Aye.  But  she  was  a 
woman  of  sense,  while  that  piece  of  goods  ought 
to  have  been  walking  the  streets,  and  that's  all  I 
can  say.  .  .  .  You  must  make  her  up  out  of 
your  head.     You  will  know  the  sort." 

"Leave  all  that  to  me,"  I  said. 

"H'm!"  he  grunted,  doubtfully,  then  going 
back  to  his  scornful  tone:  "A  month  or  so  after- 
ward the  Sagamore  arrives  home.  All  very  jolly 
at  first.  .  .  .  Hallo,  George  boy!  Hallo, 
Harry,  old  man!     .     .     .     But  by  and  by  Cap- 


146  THE  PARTNER 

tain  Harry  thinks  his  clever  brother  is  not  look- 
ing very  well.  And  George  begins  to  look  worse. 
He  can't  get  rid  of  Cloete's  notion.  It  has  stuck 
in  his  head.  .  .  .  There's  nothing  wrong — 
quite  well.  .  .  .  Captain  Harry  still  anxious. 
Business  going  all  right,  eh.^^  Quite  right.  Lots 
of  business.  Good  business.  ...  Of  course 
Captain  Harry  believes  that  easily.  Starts 
chaffing  his  brother  in  his  jolly  way  about  rolling 
in  money.  George's  shirt  sticks  to  his  back  with 
perspiration,  and  he  feels  quite  angry  with  the 
captain.  .  .  .  The  fool,  he  says  to  himself. 
Rolling  in  money,  indeed !  And  then  he  thinks 
suddenly:  Why  not.^  .  .  .  Because  Cloete's 
notion  has  got  hold  of  his  mind. 

"But  next  day  he  weakens  and  says  to  Cloete 
.  .  .  Perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  sell.  Couldn't 
you  talk  to  my  brother.^  and  Cloete  explains  to 
him  over  again  for  the  twentieth  time  why  selling 
wouldn't  do,  anyhow.  No!  The  Sagamore  must 
be  tomahawked — as  he  would  call  it;  to  spare 
George's  feelings,  maybe.  But  every  time  he 
says  the  word,  George  shudders.  .  .  .  I've  got 
a  man  at  hand  competent  for  the  job,  who  will  do 
the  trick  for  five  hundred,  and  only  too  pleased 
at  the  chance,  says  Cloete.  .  .  .  George  shuts 
his  eyes  tight  at  that  sort  of  talk — but.  at  the 
same  time  he  thinks :  Humbug !   There  can  be  no 


THE  PARTNER  147 

such  man.  And  yet  if  there  was  such  a  man  it 
would  be  safe  enough — perhaps. 

"And  Cloete  always  funny  about  it.  He 
couldn't  talk  about  anything  without  it  seeming 
there  was  a  great  joke  in  it  somewhere.  .  .  . 
Now,  says  he,  I  know  you  are  a  moral  citizen, 
George.  Morality  is  mostly  funk,  and  I  think 
you're  the  funkiest  man  I  ever  came  across  in  my 
travels.  ^Miy,  you  are  afraid  to  speak  to  your 
brother.  Afraid  to  open  your  mouth  to  him  with 
a  fortune  for  us  all  in  sight.  .  .  .  George  flares 
up  at  this:  no,  he  ain't  afraid;  he  will  speak; 
bangs  fist  on  the  desk.  And  Cloete  pats  him  on 
the  back.  .  .  .  We'll  be  made  men  presently, 
he  says. 

"But  the  first  time  George  attempts  to  speak 
to  Captain  Harry  his  heart  slides  down  into 
his  boots.  Captain  Harry  only  laughs  at  the 
notion  of  staying  ashore.  He  wants  no  holiday, 
not  he.  But  Jane  thinks  of  remaining  in  Eng- 
land this  trip.  Go  about  a  bit  and  see  some  of 
her  people.  Jane  was  the  Captain's  wife;  round- 
faced,  pleasant  lady.  George  gives  up  that  time; 
but  Cloete  won't  let  him  rest.  So  he  tries  again ; 
and  the  Captain  frowns.  He  frowns  because  he's 
puzzled.  He  can't  make  it  out.  He  has  no 
notion  of  living  away  from  his  Sagamore.    .    .    ." 

"Ah!"  I  cried.     "Now  I  understand." 


148  THE  PARTNER 

"No,  you  don't,"  he  growled,  his  black,  con- 
temptuous stare  turning  on  me  crushingly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  murmured. 

"  H'm !  Very  well,  then.  Captain  Harry  looks 
very  stern,  and  George  crumples  all  up  inside. 
.  .  .  He  sees  through  me,  he  thinks.  .  .  . 
Of  course  it  could  not  be;  but  George,  by  that 
time,  was  scared  at  his  own  shadow.  He  is 
shirking  it  with  Cloete,  too.  Gives  his  partner  to 
understand  that  his  brother  has  half  a  mind  to  try 
a  spell  on  shore,  and  so  on.  Cloete  waits,  gnawing 
his  fingers ;  so  anxious.  Cloete  really  had  found  a 
man  for  the  job.  Believe  it  or  not,  he  had  found 
him  inside  the  very  boarding-house  he  lodged  in 
— somewhere  about  Tottenham  Court  Road.  He 
had  noticed  down-stairs  a  fellow — a  boarder  and 
not  a  boarder — hanging  about  the  dark  part  of 
the  passage  mostly;  sort  of  'man  of  the  house,' 
a  slinking  chap.  Black  eyes.  White  face.  The 
woman  of  the  house — a  widow  lady,  she  called 
herself— very  full  of  Mr.  Stafford;  Mr.  Stafford 
this  and  Mr.  Stafford  that.  .  .  .  Anyhow, 
Cloete  one  evening  takes  him  out  to  have  a 
drink.  Cloete  mostly  passed  away  his  evenings 
in  saloon  bars.  No  drunkard,  though,  Cloete; 
for  company;  liked  to  talk  to  all  sorts  there;  just 
habit;  American  fashion. 

"So  Cloete  takes  that  chap  out  more  than 


THE  PARTNER  149 

once.  Not  very  good  company,  though.  Lit- 
tle to  say  for  himself.  Sits  quiet  and  drinks 
what's  given  to  him,  eyes  always  half  closed, 
speaks  sort  of  demure.  .  .  .  I've  had  mis- 
fortunes, he  says.  The  truth  was  they  had 
kicked  him  out  of  a  big  steamship  company  for 
disgraceful  conduct;  nothing  to  affect  his 
certificate,  you  understand;  and  he  had  gone 
dow^n  quite  easily.  Liked  itj  I  expect.  Any- 
thing's  better  than  work.  Lived  on  the  widow 
lady  who  kept  that  boarding-house." 

"That's   almost   incredible,"   I   ventured   to 
interrupt.     "A  man  with  a  master's  certificate,  y^ 
do  you  mean.^" 

*'I  do;  I've  known  them  'bus  cads,"  he 
growled,  contemptuously.  "Yes.  Swing  on  the 
tail-board  by  the  strap  and  yell, '  tuppence  all  the 
way.'  Through  drink.  But  this  Stafford  was 
of  another  kind.  Hell's  full  of  such  Staff ords; 
Cloete  would  make  fun  of  him,  and  then  there 
would  be  a  nasty  gleam  in  the  fellow's  half-shut 
eye.  But  Cloete  was  generally  kind  to  him.  Clo- 
ete was  a  fellow  that  w^ould  be  kind  to  a  mangy 
dog.  Anyhow,  he  used  to  stand  drinks  to  that 
object,  and  now  and  then  gave  him  half  a  crown 
— because  the  widow  lady  kept  Mr.  Stafford 
short  of  pocket-money.  They  had  rows  almost 
every  day  down  in  the  basement.     .     .     . 


150  THE  PARTNER 

"It  was  the  fellow  being  a  sailor  that  put  into 
Cloete's  mind  the  first  notion  of  doing  away 
with  the  Sagamore.  He  studies  him  a  bit, 
thinks  there's  enough  devil  in  him  yet  to  be 
tempted,  and  one  evening  he  says  to  him  .  .  . 
I  suppose  you  wouldn't  mind  going  to  sea 
again,  for  a  spell?  .  .  .  The  other  never 
raises  his  eyes;  says  it's  scarcely  worth  one's 
while  for  the  miserable  salary  one  gets.  .  .  . 
Well,  but  what  do  you  say  to  captain's  wages 
for  a  time,  and  a  couple  of  hundred  extra  if  you 
are  compelled  to  come  home  without  the  ship. 
Accidents  will  happen,  says  Cloete.  .  .  . 
Oh!  sure  to,  says  that  Stafford;  and  goes  on 
taking  sips  of  his  drink  as  if  he  had  no  interest 
in  the  matter. 

"Cloete  presses  him  a  bit;  but  the  other 
observes,  impudent  and  languid  like:  You 
see,  there's  no  future  in  a  thing  like  that — is 
there?  .  .  .  Oh!  no,  says  Cloete.  Cer- 
tainly not.  I  don't  mean  this  to  have  any 
future — as  far  as  you  are  concerned.  It's  a 
'once  for  all'  transaction.  Well,  what  do  you 
estimate  your  future  at?  he  asks.  .  .  .  The 
fellow  more  listless  than  ever — nearly  asleep. 
I  believe  the  skunk  was  really  too  lazy  to  care. 
Small  cheating  at  cards,  wheedling  or  bullying 
his  living  out  of  some  woman  or  other,  was  more 


THE  PARTNER  151 

his  style.  Cloete  swears  at  him  in  whispers 
something  awful.  All  this  in  the  saloon  bar 
of  the  Horse  Shoe,  Tottenham  Court  Road. 
Finally  they  agree,  over  the  second  sixpenny- 
worth  of  Scotch  hot,  on  five  hundred  pounds  as 
the  price  of  tomahawking  the  Sagamore.  And 
Cloete  waits  to  see  what  George  can  do. 

"A  week  or  two  goes  by.  The  other  fellow 
loafs  about  the  house  as  if  there  had  been  noth- 
ing, and  Cloete  begins  to  doubt  whether  he 
really  means  ever  to  tackle  that  job.  But  one 
day  he  stops  Cloete  at  the  door,  with  his  down- 
cast eyes:  What  about  that  employment  you 
wished  to  give  me?  he  asks.  .  .  .  You 
see,  he  had  played  some  more  than  usual  dirty 
trick  on  the  woman  and  expected  awful  ruc- 
tions presently;  and  to  be  fired  out  for  sure. 
Cloete  very  pleased.  George  had  been  pre- 
varicating to  him  such  a  lot  that  he  really 
thought  the  thing  was  as  well  as  settled.  And 
he  says:  Yes.  It's  time  I  introduced  you  to 
my  friend.  Just  get  your  hat  and  we  will  go 
now.     .     .     . 

"The  two  come  into  the  office,  and  George 
at  his  desk  sits  up  in  a  sudden  panic — staring. 
Sees  a  tallish  fellow,  sort  of  nasty-handsome 
face,  heavy  eyes,  half  shut;  short  drab  overcoat, 
shabby   bowler   hat,    very    careful-like   in   his 


152  THE  PARTNER 

movements.  And  he  thinks  to  himself,  Is 
that  how  such  a  man  looks!  No,  the  thing's 
impossible.  .  .  .  Cloete  does  the  intro- 
duction, and  the  fellow  turns  round  to  look 
behind  him  at  the  chair  before  he  sits  down. 
.  .  .  A  thoroughly  competent  man,  Cloete 
goes  on.  .  .  .  The  man  says  nothing,  sits 
perfectly  quiet.  And  George  can't  speak, 
throat  too  dry.  Then  he  makes  an  effort:  H'm! 
H'm!  Oh,  yes — unfortunately — sorry  to  dis- 
appoint— my  brother — made  other  arrange- 
ments— going  himself. 

"The  fellow  gets  up,  never  raising  his  eyes  off 
the  ground,  like  a  modest  girl,  and  goes  out 
softly,  right  out  of  the  office  without  a  sound. 
Cloete  sticks  his  chin  in  his  hand  and  bites  all 
his  fingers  at  once.  George's  heart  slows  down 
and  he  speaks  to  Cloete.  .  .  .  This  can't 
be  done.  How  can  it  be?  Directly  the  ship 
is  lost  Harry  would  see  through  it.  You  know 
he  is  a  man  to  go  to  the  underwriters  himself 
with  his  suspicions.  And  he  would  break  his 
heart  over  me.  How  can  I  play  that  on  him? 
There's  only  two  of  us  in  the  world  belonging 
to  each  other.     .     .     . 

"Cloete  lets  out  a  horrid  cuss-word,  jumps 
up,  bolts  away  into  his  room,  and  George  hears 
him    there    banging    things    around.     After    a 


THE  PARTNER  153 

while  he  goes  to  the  door  and  says  in  a  trem- 
bling voice:  You  ask  me  for  an  impossibil- 
ity. .  .  .  Cloete  inside  ready  to  fly  out 
like  a  tiger  and  rend  him,  but  he  opens  the 
door  a  little  way  and  says  softly:  Talking  of 
hearts,  yours  is  no  bigger  than  a  mouse's, 
let  me  tell  you.  .  .  .  But  George  doesn't 
care — load  off  the  heart,  anyhow.  And  just 
then  Captain  Harry  comes  in.  .  .  .  Hallo, 
George  boy.  I  am  a  little  late.  What  about  a 
chop  at  the  Cheshire,  now.^^  .  .  .  Right  you 
are,  old  man.  .  .  .  And  off  they  go  to 
lunch  together.  Cloete  has  nothing  to  eat  that 
day. 

"  George  feels  a  new  man  for  a  time;  but  all  of 
a  sudden  that  fellow  Stafford  begins  to  hang 
about  the  street,  in  sight  of  the  house  door. 
The  first  time  George  sees  him  he  thinks  he 
made  a  mistake.  But  no;  next  time  he  has  to 
go  out,  there  is  the  very  fellow  skulking  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road.  It  makes  George  ner- 
vous; but  he  must  go  out  on  business,  and  when 
the  fellow  cuts  across  the  roadway  he  dodges 
him.  He  dodges  him  once,  twice,  three  times; 
but  at  last  he  gets  nabbed  in  his  very  doorway. 
.  .  .  What  do  you  want.?  he  says,  trying  to 
look  fierce. 

"It  seems  that  ructions  had  come  in  the  base- 


154  THE  PARTNER 

ment  of  that  boarding-house,  and  the  widow 
lady  had  turned  on  him  (being  jealous  mad),  to 
the  extent  of  talking  of  the  police.  That  Mr. 
Stafford  couldn't  stand;  so  he  cleared  out  like  a 
scared  stag,  and  there  he  was,  chucked  into  the 
streets,  so  to  speak.  Cloete  looked  so  savage 
as  he  went  to  and  fro  that  he  hadn't  the  spunk 
to  tackle  him;  but  George  seemed  a  softer  kind 
to  his  eye.  He  would  have  been  glad  of  half 
a  quid,  anything.  .  .  .  I've  had  misfor- 
tunes, he  says  softly,  in  his  demure  way,  which 
frightens  George  more  than  a  row  would  have 
done.  .  .  .  Consider  the  severity  of  my 
disappointment,  he  says.     .     .     . 

*' George,  instead  of  telling  him  to  go  to  the 
devil,  loses  his  head.  ...  I  don't  know 
you.  What  do  you  want.?  he  cries,  and  bolts 
up-stairs  to  Cloete.  .  .  .  Look  what's  come 
of  it,  he  gasps;  now  we  are  at  the  mercy  of  that 
horrid  fellow.  .  .  .  Cloete  tries  to  show 
him  that  the  fellow  can  do  nothing;  but  George 
thinks  that  some  sort  of  scandal  may  be  forced 
on,  anyhow.  Says  that  he  can't  live  with  that 
horror  haunting  him.  Cloete  would  laugh  if 
\y/  he  weren't  too  weary  of  it  all.  Then  a  thought 
strikes  him  and  he  changes  his  tune.  .  .  . 
Well,  perhaps!  I  will  go  down-stairs  and  send 
him  away  to  begin  with.     ,     .     .     He  comes 


THE  PARTNER  155 

back.  .  .  .  He's  gone.  But  perhaps  you 
are  right.  The  fellow's  hard  up,  and  that's 
what  makes  people  desperate.  The  best  thmg 
would  be  to  get  him  out  of  the  country  for  a 
time.  Look  here,  the  poor  devil  is  really  in 
want  of  employment.  I  won't  ask  you  much 
this  time:  only  to  hold  your  tongue;  and  I 
shall  try  to  get  your  brother  to  take  him  as 
chief  officer.  At  this  George  lays  his  arms  and 
his  head  on  his  desk,  so  that  Cloete  feels  sorry 
for  him.  But  altogether  Cloete  feels  more 
cheerful  because  he  has  shaken  the  ghost  a  bit 
into  that  Stafford.  That  very  afternoon  he 
buys  him  a  suit  of  blue  clothes,  and  tells  him 
that  he  will  have  to  turn  to  and  work  for  his 
living  now.  Go  to  sea  as  mate  of  the  Sagamore. 
The  skunk  w^asn't  very  willing,  but  what  with 
having  nothing  to  eat  and  no  place  to  sleep  in, 
and  the  woman  having  frightened  him  with  the 
talk  of  some  prosecution  or  other,  he  had  no 
choice,  properly  speaking.  Cloete  takes  care 
of  him  for  a  couple  of  days.  .  .  .  Our 
arrangement  still  stands,  says  he.  Here's  the 
ship  bound  for  Port  Elizabeth;  not  a  safe 
anchorage  at  all.  Should  she  by  chance  part 
from  her  anchors  in  a  north-east  gale  and  get 
lost  on  the  beach,  as  many  of  them  do,  why,  it's 
five    hundred    in    your    pocket — and    a    quick 


156  THE  PARTNER 

return  home.  You  are  up  to  the  job,  ain't 
you? 

"Our  Mr.  Stafford  takes  it  all  in  with  down- 
cast eyes.  ...  I  am  a  competent  seaman, 
he  says,  with  his  sly,  modest  air.  A  ship's 
chief  mate  has  no  doubt  many  opportunities  to 
manipulate  the  chains  and  anchors  to  some  pur- 
pose. ...  At  this  Cloete  thumps  him  on 
the  back:  You'll  do,  my  noble  sailor.  Go  in 
and  win.     .     .     . 

"Next  thing  George  knows,  his  brother  tells 
him  that  he  had  occasion  to  oblige  his  partner. 
And  glad  of  it,  too.  Likes  the  partner  no  end. 
Took  a  friend  of  his  as  mate.  Man  had  his 
troubles,  been  ashore  a  year  nursing  a  dying 
wife,  it  seems.  Down  on  his  luck.  .  .  . 
George  protests  earnestly  that  he  knows  noth- 
ing of  the  person.  Saw  him  once.  Not  very 
attractive  to  look  at.  .  .  .  And  Captain 
Harry  says  in  his  hearty  way.  That's  so,  but 
must  give  the  poor  devil  a  chance.     .     -     . 

"So  Mr.  Stafford  joins  in  dock.  And  it 
seems  that  he  did  manage  to  monkey  with  one 
of  the  cables — keeping  his  mind  on  Port  Eliza- 
beth. The  riggers  had  all  the  cable  ranged  on 
deck  to  clean  lockers.  The  new  mate  watches 
them  go  ashore — dinner  hour — and  sends  the 
ship-keeper  out  of  the  ship  to  fetch  him  a  bottle 


THE  PARTNER  157 

of  beer.  Then  he  goes  to  work  whittling  away 
the  forelock  of  the  forty-five-fathoni  shackle- 
pin,  gives  it  a  tap  or  two  with  a  hammer  just 
to  make  it  loose,  and  of  course  that  cable  wasn't 
safe  any  more.  Riggers  come  back — you  know 
what  riggers  are:  come  day,  go  day,  and  God 
send  Sunday.  Down  goes  the  chain  into  the 
locker  without  their  foreman  looking  at  the 
shackles  at  all.  What  does  he  care?  He  ain't 
going  in  the  ship.  And  two  days  later  the  ship 
goes  to  sea.     .     .     ." 

At  this  point  I  was  incautious  enough  to 
breathe  out  another  "I  see,"  which  gave  offence 
again,  and  brought  on  me  a  rude  "No,  you 
don't" — as  before.  But  in  the  pause  he  re- 
membered the  glass  of  beer  at  his  elbow.  He 
drank  half  of  it,  wiped  his  mustaches,  and  re- 
marked grimly — 

"Don't  you  think  that  there  will  be  any  sea 
life  in  this,  because  there  ain't.  If  you're 
going  to  put  in  any  out  of  your  own  head,  now's 
your  chance.  I  suppose  you  know  what  ten 
days  of  bad  weather  in  the  Channel  are  like.? 
I  don't.  Anyway,  ten  whole  days  go  by. 
One  Monday  Cloete  comes  to  the  office  a  little 
late — hears  a  woman's  voice  in  George's  room 
and  looks  in.     Newspapers  on  the  desk,  on  the 


158  THE  PARTNER 

floor;  Captain  Harry's  wife  sitting  with  red 
eyes  and  a  bag  on  the  chair  near  her.  .  . 
Look  at  this,  says  George,  in  great  excitement, 
showing  him  a  paper.  Cloete's  heart  gives  a 
jump.  Ha!  Wreck  in  Westport  Bay.  The 
Sagamore  gone  ashore  early  hours  of  Sunday, 
and  so  the  newspaper  men  had  time  to  put  in 
some  of  their  work.  Columns  of  it.  Lifeboat 
out  twice.  Captain  and  crew  remain  by  the 
ship.  Tugs  summoned  to  assist.  If  the  wea- 
ther improves,  this  well-known  fine  ship  may 
yet  be  saved.  .  .  .  You  know  the  way  these 
chaps  put  it.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Harry  there  on 
her  way  to  catch  a  train  from  Cannon  Street. 
Got  an  hour  to  wait. 

"Cloete  takes  George  aside  and  whispers: 
Ship  saved  yet!  Oh,  damn!  That  must  never 
be;  you  hear.^  But  George  looks  at  him  dazed, 
and  Mrs.  Harry  keeps  on  sobbing  quietly: 
.  .  .  I  ought  to  have  been  with  him.  But 
I  am  going  to  him.  .  .  .  We  are  all  going 
together,  cries  Cloete,  all  of  a  sudden.  He 
rushes  out,  sends  the  woman  a  cup  of  hot  bovril 
from  the  shop  across  the  road,  buys  a  rug  for 
her,  thinks  of  everything;  and  in  the  train 
tucks  her  in  and  keeps  on  talking,  thirteen  to 
the  dozen,  all  the  way,  to  keep  her  spirits  up, 
as  it  were;  but  really  because  he  can't  hold  his 


THE  PARTNER  159 

peace  for  very  joy.  Here's  the  thing  done  all  at 
once,  and  nothing  to  pay.  Done.  Actually 
done.  His  head  swims  now  and  again  when  he 
thinks  of  it.  What  enormous  luck!  It  almost 
frightens  him.  He  would  like  to  yell  and  sing. 
Meantime  George  Dunbar  sits  in  his  corner, 
looking  so  deadly  miserable  that  at  last  poor 
Mrs.  Harry  tries  to  comfort  him,  and  so  cheers 
herseK  up  at  the  same  time  by  talking  about 
how  her  Harry  is  a  prudent  man;  not  likely  to 
risk  his  crew's  life  or  his  own  unnecessarily — 
and  so  on. 

"First  thing  they  hear  at  Westport  station 
is  that  the  life-boat  has  been  out  to  the  ship 
again,  and  has  brought  off  the  second  officer, 
who  had  hurt  himself,  and  a  few  sailors.  Cap- 
tain and  the  rest  of  the  crew,  about  fifteen  in 
all,  are  still  on  board.  Tugs  expected  to  arrive 
every  moment. 

"They  take  Mrs.  Harry  to  the  inn,  nearly 
opposite  the  rocks;  she  bolts  straight  up-stairs 
to  look  out  of  the  window,  and  she  lets  out  a 
great  cry  when  she  sees  the  wreck.  She  won't 
rest  till  she  gets  on  board  to  her  Harry.  Cloete 
soothes  her  all  he  can.  .  .  .  All  right;  you 
try  to  eat  a  mouthful,  and  we  will  go  to  make 
inquiries. 

"He  draws  George  out  of  the  room:    Look 


160  THE  PARTNER 

here,  she  can't  go  on  board,  but  I  shall.  I'll 
see  to  it  that  he  doesn't  stop  in  the  ship  too 
long.  Let's  go  and  find  the  coxswain  of  the 
life-boat.  .  .  .  George  follows  him,  shiver- 
ing from  time  to  time.  The  waves  are  washing 
over  the  old  pier;  not  much  wind,  a  wdld,  gloomy 
sky  over  the  bay.  In  the  whole  world  only  one  tug 
away  off,  heading  to  the  seas,  tossed  in  and  out 
of  sight  every  minute  as  regular  as  clockwork. 

"They  meet  the  coxswain  and  he  tells  them: 
Yes!  He's  going  out  again.  No,  they  ain't  in 
danger  on  board — not  yet!  But  the  ship's 
chance  is  very  poor.  Still,  if  the  wind  doesn't 
pipe  up  again  and  the  sea  goes  down  something 
might  be  tried.  After  some  talk  he  agrees  to 
take  Cloete  on  board;  supposed  to  be  with  an 
urgent  message  from  the  owners  to  the  captain. 

*' Whenever  Cloete  looks  at  the  sky  he  feels 
comforted;  it  looks  so  threatening.  George 
Dunbar  follows  him  about  with  a  white  face 
and  saying  nothing.  Cloete  takes  him  to  have 
a  drink  or  two,  and  by  and  by  he  begins  to  pick 
up.  .  .  .  That's  better,  says  Cloete;  dash 
me  if  it  wasn't  like  walking  about  with  a  dead 
man  before.  You  ought  to  be  throwing  up  your 
cap,  man.  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to  stand  in  the 
street  and  cheer.  Your  brother  is  safe,  the 
ship  is  lost,  and  we  are  made  men. 


THE  PARTNER  161 

"Are  you  certain  she's  lost?  asks  George.  It 
would  be  an  awful  blow  after  all  the  agonies  I 
have  gone  through  in  my  mind,  since  you  first 
spoke  to  me,  if  she  were  to  be  got  off — and — 
and — all  this  temptation  to  begin  over  again. 
.  .  .  For  we  had  nothing  to  do  with  this; 
had  we.^ 

"Of  course  not,  says  Cloete.  Wasn't  your 
brother  himself  in  charge.^  It's  providential. 
.  .  .  Oh!  cries  George,  shocked.  .  .  . 
Well,  say  it's  the  devil,  says  Cloete,  cheerfully. 
I  don't  mind!  You  had  nothing  to  do  with  it 
any  more  than  a  baby  unborn,  you  great  softy, 
you.  .  .  .  Cloete  has  got  so  that  he  almost 
loved  George  Dunbar.  Well.  Yes.  That  was 
so.  I  don't  mean  he  respected  him.  He  was 
just  fond  of  his  partner. 

"They  go  back,  you  may  say  fairly  skipping, 
to  the  hotel,  and  find  the  wife  of  the  captain 
at  the  open  window,  with  her  eyes  on  the  ship 
as  if  she  wanted  to  fly  across  the  bay  over 
there.  .  .  .  Now  then,  Mrs.  Dunbar,  cries 
Cloete,  you  can't  go,  but  I  am  going.  Any  mes- 
sages.? Don't  be  shy.  I'll  deliver  every  word 
faithfully.  And  if  you  would  like  to  give  me  a 
kiss  for  him,  I'll  deliver  that  too,  dash  me  if  I 
don't. 

"He  makes  Mrs.  Harry  laugh  with  his  pat- 


162  THE  PARTNER 

ter.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear  Mr.  Cloete,  you  are  a 
calm,  reasonable  man.  Make  him  behave 
sensibly.  He's  a  bit  obstinate,  you  know,  and 
he's  so  fond  of  the  ship,  too.  Tell  him  I  am 
here — looking  on.  .  .  .  Trust  me,  Mrs. 
Dunbar.  Only  shut  that  window,  that's  a 
good  girl.  You  will  be  sure  to  catch  cold  if 
you  don't,  and  the  Captain  won't  be  pleased 
coming  off  the  wreck  to  find  you  coughing  and 
sneezing  so  that  you  can't  tell  him  how  happy 
you  are.  And  now  if  you  can  get  me  a  bit  of 
tape  to  fasten  my  glasses  on  good  to  my  ears, 
I  will  be  going. 

"How  he  gets  on  board  I  don't  know.  All 
wet  and  shaken  and  excited  and  out  of  breath, 
he  does  get  on  board.  Ship  lying  over,  smoth- 
ered in  sprays,  but  not  moving  very  much;  just 
enough  to  jag  one's  nerve  a  bit.  He  finds  them 
all  crowded  on  the  deck-house  forward,  in  their 
shiny  oilskins,  with  faces  like  sick  men.  Cap- 
tain Harry  can't  believe  his  eyes.  What!  Mr. 
Cloete!  What  are  you  doing  here,  in  God's 
name?  .  .  .  Your  wife's  ashore  there,  look- 
ing, on,  gasps  out  Cloete;  and  after  they  had 
talked  a  bit.  Captain  Harry  thinks  it's  uncom- 
monly plucky  and  kind  of  his  brother's  partner 
to  come  off  to  him  like  this.  Man  glad  to 
have    somebody    to    talk    to.     .     .     .     It's    a 


THE  PARTNER  163 

bad  business,  Mr.  Cloete,  he  says.  And  Cloete 
rejoices  to  hear  that.  Captain  Harry  thinks  he 
had  done  his  best,  but  the  cable  had  parted 
when  he  tried  to  anchor  her.  It  was  a  great 
trial  to  lose  the  ship.  Well,  he  would  have  to 
face  it.  He  fetches  a  deep  sigh  now  and  then. 
Cloete  almost  sorry  he  had  come  on  board, 
because  to  be  on  that  wreck  keeps  his  chest 
in  a  tight  band  all  the  time.  They  crouch 
out  of  the  wind  under  the  port  boat,  a  little 
apart  from  the  men.  The  life-boat  had  gone 
away  after  putting  Cloete  on  board,  but  was 
coming  back  next  high  water  to  take  off  the 
crew  if  no  attempt  at  getting  the  ship  afloat 
could  be  made.  Dusk  was  falHng;  winter's 
day;  black  sky;  wind  rising.  Captain  Harry 
felt  melancholy.  God's  will  be  done.  If  she 
must  be  left  on  the  rocks — why,  she  must.  A 
man  should  take  what  God  sends  him  standing 
up.  .  .  .  Suddenly  his  voice  breaks,  and 
he  squeezes  Cloete's  arm:  It  seems  as  if  I 
couldn't  leave  her,  he  whispers.  Cloete  looks 
round  at  the  men  like  a  lot  of  huddled  sheep  and 
thinks  to  himself:  They  won't  stay.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  the  ship  lifts  a  little  and  sets  dowTi  with 
a  thump.  Tide  rising.  Everybody  beginning 
to  look  out  for  the  life-boat.  Some  of  the  men 
made  her  out  far  away  and  also  two  more  tugs. 


164  THE  PARTNER 

But  the  gale  has  come  on  again,  and  everybody 
knows  that  no  tug  will  ever  dare  come  near  the 
ship. 

"That's  the  end,  Captain  Harry  says,  very 
low.  .  .  .  Cloete  thinks  he  never  felt  so 
cold  in  all  his  life.  .  .  .  And  I  feel  as  if  I 
\^  didn't  care  to  live  on  just  now,  mutters  Captain 
Harry.  .  .  .  Your  wife's  ashore,  looking 
on,  says  Cloete.  .  .  .  Yes.  Yes.  It  must 
be  awful  for  her  to  look  at  the  poor  old  ship 
lying  here  done  for.     Why,  that's  our  home. 

"Cloete  thinks  that  as  long  as  the  Sagamore's 
done  for  he  doesn't  care,  and  only  wishes  himself 
somewhere  else.  The  slightest  movement  of 
the  ship  cuts  his  breath  like  a  blow.  And  he 
feels  excited  by  the  danger,  too.  The  captain 
takes  him  aside.  .  .  .  The  life-boat  can't 
come  near  us  for  more  than  an  hour.  Look 
here,  Cloete,  since  you  are  here,  and  such  a 
plucky  one — do  something  for  me. 
He  tells  him  then  that  down  in  his  cabin  aft  in 
a  certain  drawer  there  is  a  bundle  of  important 
papers  and  some  sixty  sovereigns  in  a  small 
canvas  bag.  Asks  Cloete  to  go  and  get  these 
things  out.  He  hasn't  been  below  since  the 
ship  struck,  and  it  seems  to  him  that  if  he  were 
to  take  his  eyes  off  her  she  would  fall  to  pieces. 
And  then  the  men — a  scared  lot  by  this  time^ 


THE  PARTNER  165 

if  he  were  to  leave  them  by  themselves  they 
would  attempt  to  launch  one  of  the  ship's  boats 
in  a  panic  at  some  heavier  thump — and  then 
some  of  them  bound  to  get  drowned.  .  . 
There  are  two  or  three  boxes  of  matches  about 
my  shelves  in  my  cabin  if  you  want  a  light, 
says  Captain  Harry.  Only  w^ipe  your  wet  hands 
before  you  begin  to  feel  for  them. 

"Cloete  doesn't  like  the  job,  but  doesn't  like 
to  show  funk,  either — and  he  goes.  Lots  of 
water  on  the  main-deck,  and  he  splashes  along; 
it  was  getting  dark,  too.  All  at  once,  by  the 
mainmast,  somebody  catches  him  by  the  arm. 
Stafford.  He  wasn't  thinking  of  Stafford  at  all. 
Captain  Harry  had  said  something  as  to  the 
mate  not  being  quite  satisfactory,  but  it  wasn't 
much.  Cloete  doesn't  recognise  him  in  his 
oilskins  at  first.  He  sees  a  white  face  with  big 
eyes  peering  at  him.  .  .  .  Are  you  pleased, 
Mr.  Cloete     .     .     .     ? 

"Cloete  is  moved  to  laugh  at  the  whine,  and 
shakes  him  off.  But  the  fellow  scrambles  on 
after  him  on  the  poop  and  follows  him  down  into 
the  cabin  of  that  wrecked  ship.  And  there 
they  are,  the  two  of  them;  can  hardly  see  each 
other.  .  .  .  You  don't  mean  to  make  me 
believe  you  have  had  anything  to  do  with  this, 
says  Cloete.     .     .     . 


166  THE  PARTNER 

*'They  both  shiver,  nearly  out  of  their  wits 
with  the  excitement  of  being  on  board  that  ship. 
She  thumps  and  lurches,  and  they  stagger  to- 
gether, feeling  sick.  Cloete  again  bursts  out 
laughing  at  that  wretched  creature  Stafford 
pretending  to  have  been  up  to  something  so 
desperate.  ...  Is  that  how  you  think  you 
can  treat  me  now?  yells  the  other  man  all  of  a 
sudden.     .     .     . 

"A  sea  strikes  the  stem,  the  ship  trembles 
and  groans  all  round  them,  there's  the  noise  of 
the  seas  about  and  overhead,  confusing  Cloete, 
and  he  hears  the  other  screaming  as  if  crazy. 
.  .  .  Ah,  you  don't  believe  me!  Go  and 
look  at  the  port  chain.  Parted?  Eh?  Go  and 
see  if  it's  parted.  Go  and  find  the  broken  link. 
You  can't.  There's  no  broken  link.  That 
means  a  thousand  pounds  for  me.  No  less. 
A  thousand  the  day  after  we  get  ashore — 
prompt.  I  won't  wait  till  she  breaks  up,  Mr. 
Cloete.  To  the  underwriters  I  go  if  I've  to 
walk  to  London  on  my  bare  feet.  Port  cable! 
Look  at  her  port  cable,  I  will  say  to  them.  I 
doctored  it — for  the  owners — tempted  by  a  low 
rascal  called  Cloete. 

"Cloete  does  not  understand  what  it  means 
exactly.  All  he  sees  is  that  the  fellow  means  to 
make  mischief.     He  sees  trouble  ahead.     .     .     . 


THE  PARTNER  167 

Do  you  think  you  can  scare  me?  he  asks — you 
poor  miserable  skunk.  .  .  .  And  Stafford 
faces  him  out — both  holding  on  to  the  cabin 
table :  No,  damn  you,  you  are  only  a  dirty  vaga- 
bond; but  I  can  scare  the  other,  the  chap  in  the 
black  coat.     .     .     . 

"Meaning  George  Dunbar.  Cloete's  brain 
reels  at  the  thought.  He  doesn't  imagine  the 
fellow  can  do  any  real  harm,  but  he  knows  what 
George  is;  give  the  show  away;  upset  the  whole 
business  he  had  set  his  heart  on.  He  says 
nothing;  he  hears  the  other,  what  with  the  funk 
and  strain  and  excitement,  panting  like  a  dog — 
and  then  a  snarl.  ...  A  thousand  down, 
twenty -four  hours  after  we  get  ashore;  day 
after  to-morrow.  That's  my  last  word,  Mr. 
Cloete.  ...  A  thousand  pounds,  day  after 
to-morrow,  says  Cloete.  Oh,  yes.  And  to-day 
take  this,  you  dirty  cur.  .  .  .  He  hits 
straight  from  the  shoulder  in  sheer  rage,  noth- 
ing else.  Stafford  goes  away  spinning  along  the 
bulkhead.  Seeing  this,  Cloete  steps  out  and 
lands  him  another  one  somewhere  about  the 
jaw.  The  fellow  staggers  backward  right  into 
the  captain's  cabin  through  the  open  door. 
Cloete,  following  him  up,  hears  him  fall  down 
heavily  and  roll  to  leeward,  then  slams  the  door 
to  and  turns  the  key.     .     .     .     There!  says  he 


168  THE  PARTNER 

to  himself,  that  will  stop  you  from  making 
trouble." 

"  By  Jove ! "  I  murmured. 

The  old  fellow  departed  from  his  impressive 
immobility  to  turn  his  rakishly  hatted  head  and 
look  at  me  with  his  old,  black,  lack-lustre 
eyes. 

"He  did  leave  him  there,"  he  uttered,  weight- 
ily, returning  to  the  contemplation  of  the  wall. 
"Cloete  didn't  mean  to  allow  anybody,  let 
alone  a  thing  like  Stafford,  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  his  great  notion  of  making  George  and  him- 
self, and  Captain  Harry,  too,  for  that  matter, 
rich  men.  And  he  didn't  think  much  of  con- 
sequences. These  patent-medicine  chaps  don't 
care  what  they  say  or  what  they  do.  They 
think  the  world's  bound  to  swallow  any  story 
they  like  to  tell.  .  .  .  He  stands  listening 
for  a  bit.  And  it  gives  him  quite  a  turn  to  hear 
a  thump  at  the  door  and  a  sort  of  muffled  raving 
screech  inside  the  captain's  room.  He  thinks 
he  hears  his  own  name,  too,  through  the  awful 
crash  as  the  old  Sagamore  rises  and  falls  to  a  sea. 
That  noise  and  that  awful  shock  make  him  clear 
out  of  the  cabin.  He  collects  his  senses  on  the 
poop.  But  his  heart  sinks  a  little  at  the  black 
wildness  of  the  night.  Chances  that  he  will 
get  drowned  himself  before  long.     Puts  his  head 


THE  PARTNER  169 

down  the  companion.  Through  the  wind  and 
breaking  seas  he  can  hear  the  noise  of  Stafford's 
beating  against  the  door  and  cursing.  He 
hstens  and  says  to  himself:  No.  Can't  trust 
him  now. 

"When  he  gets  back  to  the  top  of  the  deck- 
house he  says  to  Captain  Harry,  who  asks  him 
if  he  got  the  things,  that  he  is  very  sorry.  There 
was  something  wrong  with  the  door.  Couldn't 
open  it.  And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  says  he, 
I  didn't  like  to  stop  any  longer  in  that  cabin. 
There  are  noises  there  as  if  the  ship  were  going 
to  pieces.  .  .  .  Captain  Harry  thinks: 
Nervous;  can't  be  anything  wrong  with  the 
door.  But  he  says:  Thanks — never  mind, 
never  mind.  ...  All  hands  looking  out 
now  for  the  life-boat.  Everybody  thinking 
of  himself  rather.  Cloete  asks  himself,  will 
they  miss  him.^  But  the  fact  is  that  Mr.  Staf- 
ford had  made  such  poor  show  at  sea  that  after 
the  ship  struck  nobody  ever  paid  any  attention 
to  him.  Nobody  cared  what  he  did  or  where 
he  was.  Pitch  dark,  too — no  counting  of  heads. 
The  light  of  the  tug  with  the  life-boat  in  tow 
is  seen  making  for  the  ship,  and  Captain  Harry 
asks:  Are  we  all  there .^^  .  .  .  Somebody 
answers:  All  here,  sir.  .  .  .  Stand  by  to 
leave  the  ship,  then,  says  Captain  Harry;  and 


170  THE  PARTNER 

two  of  you  help  the  gentleman  over  first.  .  .  . 
xAye,  aye,  sir.  .  .  .  Cloete  was  moved  to 
ask  Captain  Harry  to  let  him  stay  till  last,  but 
the  life-boat  drops  on  a  grapnel  abreast  the 
fore-rigging,  two  chaps  lay  hold  of  him,  watch 
their  chance,  and  drop  him  into  her,  all  safe. 

"He's  nearly  exhausted;  not  used  to  that  sort 
of  thing,  you  see.  He  sits  in  the  stern-sheets  with 
his  eyes  shut.  Don't  want  to  look  at  the  white 
water  boiling  all  around.  The  men  drop  into 
the  boat  one  after  another.  Then  he  hears 
Captain  Harry's  voice  shouting  in  the  wind  to 
the  coxswain,  to  hold  on  a  moment,  and  some 
other  words  he  can't  catch,  and  the  coxswain 
yelling  back:  Don't  be  long,  sir.  .  .  .  What  is 
it.^  Cloete  asks,  feeling  faint.  .  .  .  Something 
about  the  ship's  papers,  says  the  coxswain,  very 
anxious.  It's  no  time  to  be  fooling  about  along- 
side, you  understand.  They  haul  the  boat  off  a 
little  and  wait.  The  water  flies  over  her  in  sheets. 
Cloete' s  senses  almost  leave  him.  He  thinks  of 
nothing.  He's  numb  all  over,  till  there's  a  shout : 
Here  he  is !  .  .  .  They  see  a  figure  in  the  fore- 
rigging  waiting — they  slack  away  on  the  grapnel- 
line  and  get  him  in  the  boat  quite  easy.  There  is 
a  little  shouting — it's  all  mixed  up  with  the  noise 
of  the  sea.  Cloete  fancies  that  Stafford's  voice 
is  talking  away  quite  close  to  his  ear.     There's  a 


THE  PARTNER  171 

lull  in  the  wind,  and  Stafford's  voice  seems  to  be 
speaking  very  fast  to  the  coxswain;  he  tells  him 
that  of  course  he  was  near  his  skipper,  was  all  the 
time  near  him,  till  the  old  man  said  at  the  last 
moment  that  he  must  go  and  get  the  ship's 
papers  from  aft;  would  insist  on  going  himself; 
told  him,  Stafford,  to  get  into  the  life-boat. 
.  .  .  He  had  meant  to  wait  for  his  skipper, 
only  there  came  this  smooth  of  the  seas,  and  he 
thought  he  would  take  his  chance  at  once. 

"Cloete  opens  his  eyes.  Yes.  There's  Staf- 
ford sitting  close  by  him  in  that  crowded  life- 
boat. The  coxswain  stoops  over  Cloete  and 
cries:  Did  you  hear  what  the  mate  said,  sir.^ 
Cloete's  face  feels  as  if  it  were  set  in 
plaster,  lips  and  all.  Yes,  I  did,  he  forces  him- 
self to  answer.  The  coxswain  waits  a  moment, 
then  says:  I  don't  like  it.  .  .  .  And  he  turns 
to  the  mate,  telling  him  it  was  a  pity  he  did  not 
try  to  run  along  the  deck  and  hurry  up  the  cap- 
tain when  the  lull  came.  Stafford  answers  at 
once  that  he  did  think  of  it,  only  he  was  afraid  of 
missing  him  on  the  deck  in  the  dark.  For,  says 
he,  the  captain  might  have  got  over  at  once, 
thinking  I  was  already  in  the  life-boat,  and  you 
would  have  hauled  off  perhaps,  leaving  me  be- 
hind. .  .  .  True  enough,  says  the  coxswain. 
A  minute  or  so  passes.  This  won't  do,  mutters  the 


172  THE  PARTNER 

coxswain.  Suddenly  Stafford  speaks  up  in  a  sort 
of  hollow  voice:  I  was  by  when  he  told  Mr.  Cloete 
here  that  he  didn't  know  how  he  would  ever  have 
the  courage  to  leave  the  old  ship;  didn't  he,  now? 
.  .  .  And  Cloete  feels  his  arm  being  gripped 
quietly  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  Didn't  he  now? 
We  were  standing  together  just  before  you  went 
over,  Mr.  Cloete?     .     .     . 

"Just  then  the  coxswain  cries  out:  I'm  going 
on  board  to  see.  .  .  .  Cloete  tears  his  arm 
away:  I  am  going  with  you.     .     .     . 

"When  they  get  aboard,  the  coxswain  tells 
Cloete  to  go  aft  along  one  side  of  the  ship  and  he 
would  go  along  on  the  other  so  as  not  to  miss  the 
captain.  .  .  .  And  feel  about  with  your  hands, 
too,  says  he;  he  might  have  fallen  and  be  lying  in- 
sensible somewhere  on  the  deck.  .  .  .  When 
Cloete  gets  at  last  to  the  cabin  companion  on  the 
poop  the  coxswain  is  already  there,  peering  down 
and  sniffing.  I  detect  the  smell  of  smoke  down 
there,  says  he.  And  he  yells:  Are  you  there,  sir? 
.  .  .  This  is  not  a  case  for  shouting,  says 
Cloete,  feeling  his  heart  go  stony,  as  it  were. 
.  .  .  Down  they  go.  Pitch  dark;  the  incli- 
nation so  sharp  that  the  coxswain,  groping  his 
way  into  the  captain's  room,  slips  and  goes 
tumbling  down.  Cloete  hears  him  cry  out  as 
though  he  had  hurt  himself,  and  asks  what's  the 


THE  PARTNER  173 

matter.  And  the  coxswain  answers  quietly 
that  he  had  fallen  on  the  captain,  lying  there  in- 
sensible. Cloete  without  a  word  begins  to  grope 
all  over  the  shelves  for  a  box  of  matches,  finds 
one,  strikes  a  light.  He  sees  the  coxswain  in  his 
cork  jacket  kneeling  over  Captain  Harry.  .  .  . 
Blood,  says  the  coxswain,  looking  up,  and  the 
match  goes  out.    .    .    . 

"Wait  a  bit,  says  Cloete;  I'll  make  paper 
spills.  ...  He  had  felt  the  back  of  books 
on  the  shelves.  And  so  he  stands  lighting  one 
spill  from  another  while  the  coxswain  turns  poor 
Captain  Harry  over.  Dead,  he  says.  Shot 
through  the  heart.  Here's  the  revolver.  .  .  . 
He  hands  it  up  to  Cloete,  who  looks  at  it  before 
putting  it  in  his  pocket,  and  sees  a  plate  on  the 
butt  with  H.  Dunbar  on  it.  .  .  .  His  own,  he 
mutters.  .  .  .  Wliose  else  revolver  did  you 
expect  to  find?  snaps  the  coxswain.  And  look, 
he  took  off  his  long  oilskin  in  the  cabin  before  he 
went  in.  But  what's  this  lot  of  burnt  paper.^ 
what  could  he  want  to  burn  the  ship's  papers 
for.?     .     .     . 

"  Cloete  sees  all  the  little  drawers  drawn  out, 
and  asks  the  coxswain  to  look  well  into  them. 
.  .  .  There's  nothing,  says  the  man.  Cleaned 
out.  Seems  to  have  pulled  out  all  he  could  lay 
his  hands  on  and  set  fire  to  the  lot.     Mad — 


174  THE  PARTNER 

that's  what  it  is — went  mad.  And  now  he's 
dead.     You'll  have  to  break  it  to  his  wife.    .    .    . 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  mad  myself,  says 
Cloete,  suddenly,  and  the  coxswain  begs  him  for 
God's  sake  to  pull  himself  together,  and  drags 
him  away  from  the  cabin.  They  had  to  leave 
the  body,  and  as  it  was  they  were  just  in  time  be- 
fore a  furious  squall  came  on.  Cloete  is  dragged 
into  the  life-boat  and  the  coxswain  tumbles  in. 
Haul  away  on  the  grapnel,  he  shouts;  the  captain 
has  shot  himself.     .     .     . 

"  Cloete  was  like  a  dead  man — didn't  care  for 
anything.  He  let  that  Stafford  pinch  his  arm 
twice  without  making  a  sign.  Most  of  West- 
port  was  on  the  old  pier  to  see  the  men  out  of  the 
life-boat,  and  at  first  there  was  a  sort  of  confused 
cheery  uproar  when  she  came  alongside;  but 
after  the  coxswain  has  shouted  something  the 
voices  die  out,  and  everybody  is  very  quiet.  As 
soon  as  Cloete  has  set  foot  on  something  firm  he 
becomes  himself  again.  The  coxswain  shakes 
hands  with  him:  Poor  woman,  poor  woman,  I'd 
rather  you  had  the  job  than  I.     .     .     . 

"Where's  the  mate.^  asks  Cloete.  He's  the 
last  man  who  spoke  to  the  master.  .  .  . 
Somebody  ran  along — the  crew  were  being  taken 
to  the  Mission  Hall,  where  there  was  a  fire  and 
shake-downs   ready   for   them — somebody   ran 


THE  PARTNER  175 

along  the  pier  and  caught  up  with  Stafford. 
.  .  .  Here!  The  owner's  agent  wants  you. 
.  .  .  Cloete  tucks  the  fellow's  arm  under  his 
own  and  walks  away  with  him  to  the  left,  where 
the  fishing  harbour  is.  .  .  .1  suppose  I  haven't 
misunderstood  you.  You  wish  me  to  look  after 
you  a  bit,  says  he.  The  other  hangs  on  him 
rather  limp,  but  gives  a  nasty  little  laugh:  You 
had  better,  he  mumbles;  but  mind,  no  tricks;  no 
tricks,  Mr.  Cloete;  we  are  on  land  now. 

"There's  a  police  office  within  fifty  yards  from 
here,  says  Cloete.  He  turns  into  a  little  public 
house,  pushes  Stafford  along  the  passage.  The 
landlord  runs  out  of  the  bar.  .  .  .  This  is  the 
mate  of  the  ship  on  the  rocks,  Cloete  explains;  I 
wish  you  would  take  care  of  him  a  bit  to-night. 
.  Wiat's  the  matter  with  him?  asks  the 
man.  Stafford  leans  against  the  wall  in  the 
passage,  looking  ghastly.  And  Cloete  says  it's 
nothing — done  up,  of  course.  ...  I  will  be 
responsible  for  the  expense;  I  am  the  owner's 
agent.    I'll  be  round  in  an  hour  or  two  to  see  him. 

"And  Cloete  gets  back  to  the  hotel.  The 
news  had  travelled  there  already,  and  the  first 
thing  he  sees  is  George  outside  the  door  as  white 
as  a  sheet  waiting  for  him.  Cloete  just  gives  him 
a  nod  and  they  go  in.  Mrs.  Harry  stands  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  and,  when  she  sees  only  these 


176  THE  PARTNER 

two  coming  up,  flings  her  arms  above  her  head 
and  runs  into  her  room.  Nobody  had  dared  tell 
her,  but  not  seeing  her  husband  was  enough. 
Cloete  hears  an  awful  shriek.  .  .  .  Go  to 
her,  he  says  to  George. 

"While  he's  alone  in  the  private  parlour 
Cloete  drinks  a  glass  of  brandy  and  thinks  it  all 
out.  Then  George  comes  in.  .  .  .  The  land- 
lady's with  her,  he  says.  And  he  begins  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room,  flinging  his  arms  about 
and  talking,  disconnected  like,  his  face  set  hard 
as  Cloete  has  never  seen  it  before.  .  .  .  What 
must  be,  must  be.  Dead — only  brother.  Well, 
dead — his  troubles  over.  But  we  are  living,  he 
says  to  Cloete;  and  I  suppose,  says  he,  glaring  at 
him  with  hot,  dry  eyes,  that  you  won't  forget  to 
wire  in  the  morning  to  your  friend  that  we  are 
coming  in  for  certain. 

"  Meaning  the  patent-medicine  fellow.  .  .  . 
Death  is  death  and  business  is  business,  George 
goes  on;  and  look — my  hands  are  clean,  he  says, 
showing  them  to  Cloete.  Cloete  thinks:  He's 
going  crazy.  He  catches  hold  of  him  by  the 
shoulders  and  begins  to  shake  him :  Damn  you — 
if  you  had  had  the  sense  to  know  what  to  say  to 
your  brother,  if  you  had  had  the  spunk  to  speak 
to  him  at  all,  you  moral  creature  you,  he  would 
be  alive  now,  he  shouts. 


THE  PARTNER  177 

"At  this  George  stares,  then  bursts  out  weep- 
ing with  a  great  bellow.  He  throws  himself  on 
the  couch,  buries  his  face  in  a  cushion,  and  howls 
like  a  kid.  .  .  .  That's  better,  thinks  Cloete, 
and  he  leaves  him,  telling  the  landlord  that  he 
must  go  out,  as  he  has  some  little  business  to 
attend  to  that  night.  The  landlord's  wife,  weep- 
ing herself,  catches  him  on  the  stairs:  Oh,  sir, 
that  poor  lady  will  go  out  of  her  mind.     .     .     . 

*' Cloete  shakes  her  off  thinking  to  himself: 
Oh,  no !  She  won't.  She  will  get  over  it.  No- 
body will  go  mad  about  this  affair  unless  I  do. 
It  isn't  sorrow  that  makes  people  go  mad,  but 
worry. 

"There  Cloete  was  wrong.  What  affected 
Mrs.  Harry  was  that  her  husband  should  take 
his  own  life,  with  her,  as  it  were,  looking  on. 
She  brooded  over  it  so  that  in  less  than  a  year 
they  had  to  put  her  in  a  Home.  She  was  very, 
very  quiet;  just  gentle  melancholy.  She  lived 
for  quite  a  long  time. 

"Well,  Cloete  splashes  along  in  the  wind  and 
rain.  Nobody  in  the  streets — all  the  excitement 
over.  The  publican  runs  out  to  meet  him  in  the 
passage  and  says  to  him:  Not  this  way.  He 
isn't  in  his  room.  We  couldn't  get  him  to  go  to 
bed  nohow.  He's  in  the  Httle  parlour  there. 
We've  lighted  him  a  fire.    .    .    .    You  have  been 


178  THE  PARTNER 

giving  him  drinks  too,  says  Cloete;  I  never  said  I 
would  be  responsible  for  drinks.  How  many? 
.  .  .  Two,  says  the  other.  It's  all  right.  I 
don't  mind  doing  that  much  for  a  ship- 
wrecked sailor.  .  .  .  Cloete  smiles  his 
funny  smile:     Eh?     Come.     He  paid  for  them. 

The    publican    just    blinks. 
Gave  you  gold,  didn't  he?    Speak  up! 
What  of  that!     cries  the  man.     What  are  you 
after,  anyway?     He  had  the  right  change  for 
his  sovereign. 

"Just  so,  says  Cloete.  He  walks  into  the 
parlour,  and  there  he  sees  our  Stafford;  hair  all 
up  on  end,  landlord's  shirt  and  pants  on,  bare 
feet  in  slippers,  sitting  by  the  fire.  When  he 
sees  Cloete  he  casts  his  eyes  down. 

"You  didn't  mean  us  ever  to  meet  again, 
Mr.  Cloete,  Stafford  says,  demurely. 
That  fellow,  when  he  had  the  drink  he  wanted — 
he  wasn't  a  drunkard — would  put  on  this  sort 
of  sly,  modest  air.  .  .  .  But  since  the  cap- 
tain committed  suicide,  he  says,  I  have  been 
sitting  here  thinking  it  out.  All  sorts  of  things 
happen.  Conspiracy  to  lose  the  ship — at- 
tempted murder — and  this  suicide.  For  if  it 
was  not  suicide,  Mr.  Cloete,  then  I  know  of 
a  victim  of  the  most  cruel,  cold-blooded  attempt 
at  murder;  somebody  who  has  suffered  a  thou- 


THE  PARTNER  179 

sand  deaths.  And  that  makes  the  thousand 
pounds  of  which  we  spoke  once  a  quite  insignifi- 
cant sum.  Look  how  very  convenient  this  sui- 
cide is.     .     .     . 

"He  looks  up  at  Cloete  then,  who  smiles  at 
him  and  comes  quite  close  to  the  table. 

"You  killed  Harry  Dunbar,  he  whispers.  .  .  . 
The  fellow  glares  at  him  and  shows  his  teeth: 
Of  course  I  did!  I  had  been  in  that  cabin  for 
an  hour  and  a  half  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  .  .  . 
Shut  up  and  left  to  drown  in  that  wreck.  Let 
flesh  and  blood  judge.  Of  course  I  shot  him! 
I  thought  it  was  you,  you  murdering  scoundrel, 
come  back  to  settle  me.  He  opens  the  door 
flying  and  tumbles  right  down  upon  me;  I  had, 
a  revolver  in  my  hand,  and  I  shot  him.  I  was 
crazy.     Men  have  gone  crazy  for  less. 

"  Cloete  looks  at  him  without  flinching.  Aha ! 
That's  your  story,  is  it?  .  .  .  And  he 
shakes  the  table  a  little  in  his  passion  as  he 
speaks.  .  .  .  Now  listen  to  mine.  What's 
this  conspiracy?  Who's  going  to  prove  it? 
You  were  there  to  rob.  You  were  rifling  his 
cabin;  he  came  upon  you  unawares  with  your 
hands  in  the  drawer;  and  you  shot  him  with 
his  own  revolver.  You  killed  to  steal — to  steal ! 
His  brother  and  the  clerks  in  the  office  know 
that  he  took  sixty  pounds  with  him  to  sea. 


180  THE  PARTNER 

Sixty  pounds  in  gold  in  a  canvas  bag.  He  told 
me  where  they  were.  The  coxswain  of  the 
life-boat  can  swear  to  it  that  the  drawers  were 
all  empty.  And  you  are  such  a  fool  that  before 
you're  half  an  hour  ashore  you  change  a  sov- 
ereign to  pay  for  a  drink.  Listen  to  me.  If 
you  don't  turn  up  day  after  to-morrow  at 
George  Dunbar's  solicitors,  to  make  the  proper 
deposition  as  to  the  loss  of  the  ship,  I  shall  set 
the  police  on  your  track.  Day  after  to-mor- 
row.    .     .     . 

"And  then  what  do  you  think?  That  Staf- 
ford begins  to  tear  his  hair.  Just  so.  Tugs 
at  it  with  both  hands  without  saying  anything. 
Cloete  gives  a  push  to  the  table  which  nearly 
sends  the  fellow  off  his  chair,  tumbling  inside 
the  fender;  so  that  he  has  got  to  catch  hold  of  it 
to  save  himself.     . 

"You  know  the  sort  of  man  I  am,  Cloete  says, 
fiercely.  I've  got  to  a  point  that  I  don't  care 
what  happens  to  me.  I  would  shoot  you  now 
for  tuppence. 

"At  this  the  cur  dodges  under  the  table. 
Then  Cloete  goes  out,  and  as  he  turns  in  the 
street — you  know,  little  fishermen's  cottages, 
all  dark;  raining  in  torrents,  too — the  other 
opens  the  window  of  the  parlour  and  speaks  in  a 
sort  of  crying  voice — 


THE  PARTNER  181 

"You  low  Yankee  fiend — I'll  pay  you  off 
some  day. 

"Cloete  passes  by  with  a  damn  bitter  laugh, 
because  he  thinks  that  the  fellow  in  a  way  has 
paid  him  off  already,  if  he  only  knew  it." 

My  impressive  ruffian  drank  what  remained  of 
his  beer,  while  his  black,  sunken  eyes  looked  at 
me  over  the  rim. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  this,"  I  said.  "In 
what  way.^" 

He  unbent  a  little  and  explained  without  too 
much  scorn  that  Captain  Harry  being  dead,  his 
half  of  the  insurance  money  went  to  his  wife, 
and  her  trustees  of  course  bought  consols  with 
it.  Enough  to  keep  her  comfortable.  George 
Dunbar's  half,  as  Cloete  feared  from  the  first, 
did  not  prove  sufficient  to  launch  the  medicine 
well;  other  moneyed  men  stepped  in,  and  these 
two  had  to  go  out  of  that  business,  pretty  nearly 
shorn  of  everything. 

"I  am  curious,"  I  said,  "to  learn  what  the 
motive  force  of  this  tragic  affair  was — I  mean 
the  patent  medicine.     Do  you  know.^^ " 

He  named  it,  and  I  whistled  respectfully. 
Nothing  less  than  Parker's  Lively  Lum- 
bago Pills.  Enormous  property!  You  know 
it;    all    the    world    knows    it.      Every    second 


Au  ^-^\ 


182  THE  PARTNER 

man,  at  least,  on  this  globe  of  ours  has  tried 
it. 

"Why!"  I  cried,  "they  missed  an  immense 
fortune." 

"Yes,"  he  mumbled,  "by  the  price  of  a  re- 
volver-shot." 

He  told  me  also  that  eventually  Cloete  re- 
turned to  the  States,  passenger  in  a  cargo-boat 
from  Albert  Dock.  The  night  before  he  sailed 
he  met  him  wandering  about  the  quays,  and 
took  him  home  for  a  drink.  "Funny  chap, 
Cloete.  We  sat  all  night  drinking  grogs,  till 
it  was  time  for  him  to  go  on  board." 

It  was  then  that  Cloete,  unembittered  but 
weary,  told  him  this  story,  with  that  utterly 
unconscious  frankness  of  a  patent-medicine 
man  stranger  to  all  moral  standards.  Cloete 
concluded  by  remarking  that  he  had  "had 
enough  of  the  old  country."  George  Dunbar 
had  turned  on  him,  too,  in  the  end.  Cloete 
was  clearly  somewhat  disillusioned. 

As  to  Stafford,  he  died,  professed  loafer,  in 
some  East  End  hospital  or  other,  and  on  his  last 
day  clamoured  "for  a  parson,"  because  his 
conscience  worried  him  for  killing  an  innocent 
man.  "Wanted  somebody  to  tell  him  it  was 
all  right,"  growled  my  old  ruffian,  contemptu- 
ously.    "He  told  the  parson  that  I  knew  this 


THE  PARTNER  188 

Cloete  who  had  tried  to  murder  him,  and  so  the 
parson  (he  worked  among  the  dock  labourers) 
once  spoke  to  me  about  it.  That  skunk  of  a 
fellow  finding  himself  trapped  yelled  for  mercy. 
.  .  .  Promised  to  be  good  and  so  on.  .  .  . 
Then  he  went  crazy  .  .  .  screamed  and  threw 
himself  about,  beat  his  head  against  the  bulk- 
heads .  .  .  you  can  guess  all  that — eh? 
till  he  was  exhausted.  Gave  up. 
Threw  himself  down,  shut  his  eyes,  and  wanted 
to  pray.  So  he  says.  Tried  to  think  of  some 
prayer  for  a  quick  death — he  was  that  terrified. 
Thought  that  if  he  had  a  knife  or  something  he 
would  cut  his  throat,  and  be  done  with  it.  Then 
he  thinks:  No!  Would  try  to  cut  away  the 
wood  about  the  lock.  .  .  .  He  had  no  knife 
in  his  pocket.  .  .  .  He  was  weeping  and 
calling  on  God  to  send  him  a  tool  of  some 
kind  when  suddenly  he  thinks:  Axe!  In 
most  ships  there  is  a  spare  emergency  axe 
kept  in  the  master's  room  in  some  locker  or 
other.  .  .  .  Up  he  jumps.  .  .  .  Pitch 
dark.  Pulls  at  the  drawers  to  find  matches 
and,  groping  for  them,  the  first  thing  he  comes 
upon — Captain  Harry's  revolver.  Loaded 
too.  He  goes  perfectly  quiet  all  over.  Can 
shoot  the  lock  to  pieces.  See?  Saved!  God's 
providence!     There  are  boxes  of  matches  too. 


184  THE  PARTNER 

Thinks  he:  I  may  just  as  well  see  what  I  am 
about. 

"Strikes  a  light  and  sees  the  little  canvas  bag 
tucked  away  at  the  back  of  the  drawer.  Knew 
at  once  what  that  was.  Rams  it  into  his  pocket 
quick.  Aha!  says  he  to  himself:  this  requires 
more  light.  So  he  pitches  a  lot  of  paper  on  the 
floor,  set  fire  to  it,  and  starts  in  a  hurry  rum- 
maging for  more  valuables.  Did  you  ever? 
He  told  that  East-End  parson  that  the  devil 
tempted  him.  First  God's  mercy — then  devil's 
work.     Turn  and  turn  about.     .     .     . 

"Any  squirming  skunk  can  talk  like  that. 
He  was  so  busy  with  the  drawers  that  the  first 
thing  he  heard  was  a  shout.  Great  Heavens. 
He  looks  up  and  there  was  the  door  open  (Cloete 
had  left  the  key  in  the  lock)  and  Captain  Harry 
holding  on,  well  above  him,  very  fierce  in  the 
light  of  the  burning  papers.  His  eyes  were 
starting  out  of  his  head.  Thieving,  he  thunders 
at  him.  A  sailor!  An  officer!  No!  A  wretch 
like  you  deserves  no  better  than  to  be  left  here 
to  drown. 

"This  Stafford — on  his  death-bed — told  the 
parson  that  when  he  heard  these  words  he  went 
crazy  again.  He  snatched  his  hand  with  the 
revolver  in  it  out  of  the  drawer,  and  fired  with- 
out aiming.     Captain  Harry  fell  right  in  with  a 


THE  PARTNER  185 

crash  like  a  stone  on  top  of  the  burning  papers, 
putting  the  blaze  out.  All  dark.  Not  a  sound. 
He  listened  for  a  bit  then  dropped  the  revolver 
and  scrambled  out  on  deck  like  mad." 

The  old  fellow  struck  the  table  with  his 
ponderous  fist. 

"What  makes  me  sick  is  to  hear  these  silly 
boatmen  telling  people  the  captain  committed 
suicide.  Pah !  Captain  Harry  was  a  man  that 
could  face  his  Maker  any  time  up  there,  and 
here  below,  too.  He  wasn't  the  sort  to  slink 
out  of  life.  Not  he!  He  was  a  good  man  down 
to  the  ground.  He  gave  me  my  first  job  as 
stevedore  only  three  days  after  I  got  mar- 
ried." 

As  the  vindication  of  Captain  Harry  from  the 
charge  of  suicide  seemed  to  be  his  only  object, 
I  did  not  thank  him  very  effusively  for  his 
material.  And  then  it  was  not  worth  many 
thanks  in  any  case. 

For  it  is  too  startling  even  to  think  of  such 
things  happening  in  our  respectable  Channel  in 
full  view,  so  to  speak,  of  the  luxurious  conti- 
nental traffic  to  Switzerland  and  Monte  Carlo. 
This  story  to  be  acceptable  should  have  been 
transposed  to  somewhere  in  the  South  Seas, 
But  it  would  have  been  too  much  trouble  to 
cook  it  for  the  consumption  of  magazine  readers. 


186  THE  PARTNER 

So  here  it  is  raw,  so  to  speak — just  as  it  was  told 
to  me — but  unfortunately  robbed  of  the  striking 
effect  of  the  narrator;  the  most  imposing  old 
ruffian  that  ever  followed  the  unromantic  trade 
of  master  stevedore  in  the  port  of  London. 

Oct,  1910. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 
A  FIND 


|1/^      ' 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

A  FIND 

This  tale,  episode,  experience — call  it  how  you 
will — was  related  in  the  fifties  of  the  last  century 
by  a  man  who,  by  his  own  confession,  was  sixty 
years  old  at  the  time.  Sixty  is  not  a  bad  age — 
unless  in  perspective,  when  no  doubt  it  is  con- 
templated by  the  majority  of  us  with  mixed 
feelings.  It  is  a  calm  age;  the  game  is  practi- 
cally over  by  then;  and  standing  aside  one  be- 
gins to  remember  with  a  certain  vividness  what 
a  fine  fellow  one  used  to  be.  I  have  observed 
that,  by  an  amiable  attention  of  Providence, 
most  people  at  sixty  begin  to  take  a  romantic 
view  of  themselves.  Their  very  failures  exhale 
a  charm  of  peculiar  potency.  And  indeed  the 
hopes  of  the  future  are  a  fine  company  to  live 
with,  exquisite  forms,  fascinating  if  you  like,  but 
— so  to  speak — naked,  stripped  for  a  run.  The 
robes  of  glamour  are  luckily  the  property  of  the 
immovable  past  which,  without  them,  would  sit, 
a  shivery  sort  of  thing,  under  the  gathering 
shadows. 


190    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

I  suppose  it  was  the  romanticism  of  growing 
age  which  set  our  man  to  relate  his  experience  for 
his  own  satisfaction  or  for  the  wonder  of  his 
posterity.  It  could  not  have  been  for  his  glory, 
because  the  experience  was  simply  that  of  an 
abominable  fright — terror  he  calls  it.  You 
would  have  guessed  that  the  relation  alluded  to 
in  the  very  first  lines  was  in  writing. 

This  writing  constitutes  the  Find  declared  in 
the  sub-title.  The  title  itself  is  my  own  con- 
trivance (can't  call  it  invention),  and  has  the 
merit  of  veracity.  We  will  be  concerned  with 
an  inn  here.  As  to  the  witches  that's  merely  a 
conventional  expression,  and  we  must  take  our 
man's  word  for  it  that  it  fits  the  case. 

The  Find  was  made  in  a  box  of  books  bought 
in  London,  in  a  street  which  no  longer  exists, 
from  a  second-hand  bookseller  in  the  last  stage 
of  decay.  As  to  the  books  themselves  they  were 
at  least  twentieth-hand,  and  on  inspection 
turned  out  not  worth  the  very  small  sum  of 
money  I  disbursed.  It  might  have  been  some 
premonition  of  the  fact  which  made  me  say :  "  But 
I  must  have  the  box  too."  The  decayed  book- 
seller assented  by  the  careless,  tragic  gesture  of  a 
man  already  doomed  to  extinction. 

A  litter  of  loose  pages  at  the  bottom  of  the  box 
excited  my   curiosity  but  faintly.     The  close. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    191 

neat,  regular  handwriting  was  not  attractive  at 
first  sight.  But  in  one  place  the  statement  that 
in  A.  D.  1813  the  writer  was  twenty-two  years  old 
caught  my;  eye.  Two  and  twenty  is  an  interest- 
ing age  in  which  one  is  easily  reckless  and  easily 
frightened;  the  faculty  of  reflection  being  weak 
and  the  power  of  imagination  strong. 

In  another  place  the  phrase:  "At  night  we 
stood  in  again,"  arrested  my  languid  attention, 
because  it  was  a  sea  phrase.  "Let's  see  what  it 
is  all  about,"  I  thought,  without  excitement. 

Oh!  but  it  was  a  dull-faced  MS.,  each  line  re- 
sembling every  other  line  in  their  close-set  and 
regular  order.  It  was  like  the  drone  of  a  monoto- 
nous voice.  A  treatise  on  sugar-refining  (the 
dreariest  subject  I  can  think  of)  could  have  been 
given  a  more  lively  appearance.  "  In  a.  d.  1813 
I  was  twenty-two  years  old,"  he  begins  earnestly, 
and  goes  on  with  every  appearance  of  calm, 
horrible  industry.  Don't  imagine,  however, 
that  there  is  anything  archaic  in  my  find.  Dia- 
bolic ingenuity  in  invention  though  as  old  as  the 
world  is  by  no  means  a  lost  art.  Look  at  the 
telephones  for  shattering  the  little  peace  of  mind 
given  to  us  in  this  world,  or  at  the  machine  guns 
for  letting  with  dispatch  life  out  of  our  bodies. 
Now-a-days  any  blear-eyed  old  witch  if  only 
strong   enough   to  turn   an  insignificant  little 


192    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

handle  could  lay  low  a  hundred  young  men  of 
twenty  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

If  this  isn't  progress !  .  .  .  Why  immense ! 
We  have  moved  on,  and  so  you  must  expect  to 
meet  here  a  certain  naiveness  of  contrivance  and 
simplicity  of  aim  appertaining  to  the  remote 
epoch.  And  of  course  no  motoring  tourist  can 
hope  to  find  such  an  inn  anywhere,  now.  This 
one,  the  one  of  the  title,  was  situated  in  Spain. 
That  much  I  discovered  only  from  internal 
evidence,  because  a  good  many  pages  of  that  re- 
lation were  missing — perhaps  not  a  great  mis- 
fortune after  all.  The  writer  seemed  to  have 
entered  into  a  most  elaborate  detail  of  the  why 
and  wherefore  of  his  presence  on  that  coast — 
presumably  the  north  coast  of  Spain.  His  ex- 
perience has  nothing  to  do  with  the  sea,  though. 
As  far  as  I  can  make  it  out,  he  was  an  officer  on 
board  a  sloop-of-war.  There's  nothing  strange 
in  that.  At  all  stages  of  the  long  Peninsular 
campaign  many  of  our  men-of-war  of  the  smaller 
kind  were  cruising  off  the  north  coast  of  Spain — 
as  risky  and  disagreeable  a  station  as  can  well  be 
imagined. 

It  looks  as  though  that  ship  of  his  had  had 
some  special  service  to  perform.  A  careful  ex- 
planation of  all  the  circumstances  was  to  be  ex- 
pected from  our  man,  only,  as  I've  said,  some  of 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    193 

his  pages  (good  tough  paper  too)  were  missing: 
gone  in  covers  for  jampots  or  in  wadding  for  the 
fowHng-pieces  of  his  irreverent  posterity.  But 
it  is  to  be  seen  clearly  that  communication  with 
the  shore  and  even  the  sending  of  messages  in- 
land was  part  of  her  service,  either  to  obtain  in- 
telligence from  or  to  transmit  orders  or  advice  to 
patriotic  Spaniards,  guerilleros  or  secret  juntas 
of  the  province.  Something  of  the  sort.  All 
this  can  be  only  inferred  from  the  preserved 
scraps  of  his  conscientious  writing. 

Next  we  come  upon  the  panegyric  of  a  very 
fine  sailor,  a  member  of  the  ship's  company, 
having  the  rating  of  the  captain's  coxswain.  He 
was  known  on  board  as  Cuba  Tom;  not  because 
he  was  Cuban  however;  he  was  indeed  the  best 
type  of  a  genuine  British  tar  of  that  time,  and  a 
man-of-war's  man  for  years.  He  came  by  the 
name  on  account  of  some  wonderful  adventures 
he  had  in  that  island  in  his  young  days,  adven- 
tures which  were  the  favourite  subject  of  the 
yarns  he  was  in  the  habit  of  spinning  to  his  ship- 
mates of  an  evening  on  the  forecastle  head.  He 
was  intelligent,  very  strong,  and  of  proved 
courage.  Incidentally  we  are  told,  so  exact  is 
our  narrator,  that  Tom  had  the  finest  pigtail  for 
thickness  and  length  of  any  man  in  the  Navy. 
This  appendage,  much  cared  for  and  sheathed 


194    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

tightly  in  a  porpoise  skin,  hung  half  way  down 
his  broad  back  to  the  great  admiration  of  all  be- 
holders and  to  the  great  envy  of  some. 

Our  young  oflficer  dwells  on  the  manly  quali- 
ties of  Cuba  Tom  with  something  like  affection. 
This  sort  of  relation  between  officer  and  man  was 
not  then  very  rare.  A  youngster  on  joining  the 
service  was  put  under  the  charge  of  a  trust- 
worthy seaman,  who  slung  his  first  hammock  for 
him  and  often  later  on  became  a  sort  of  humble 
friend  to  the  junior  officer.  The  narrator  on 
joining  the  sloop  had  found  this  man  on  board 
after  some  years  of  separation.  There  is  some- 
thing touching  in  the  warm  pleasure  he  remem- 
bers and  records  at  this  meeting  with  the  pro- 
fessional mentor  of  his  boyhood. 

We  discover  then  that,  no  Spaniard  being 
forthcoming  for  the  service,  this  worthy  seaman 
with  the  unique  pigtail  and  a  very  high  char- 
acter for  courage  and  steadiness  had  been 
selected  as  messenger  for  one  of  these  missions 
inland  which  have  been  mentioned.  His  prepa- 
rations were  not  elaborate.  One  gloomy  autumn 
morning  the  sloop  ran  close  to  a  shallow  cove 
where  a  landing  could  be  made  on  that  iron- 
bound  shore.  A  boat  was  lowered,  and  pulled 
in  with  Tom  Corbin  (Cuba  Tom)  perched  in  the 
bow,  and  our  young  man  (Mr.  Edgar  Byrne  was^ 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES     195 

his  name  on  this  earth  which  knows  him  no  more) 
sitting  in  the  stern  sheets. 

A  few  inhabitants  of  a  hamlet,  whose  grey 
stone  houses  could  be  seen  a  hundred  yards  or  so 
up  a  deep  ravine,  had  come  down  to  the  shore 
and  watched  the  approach  of  the  boat.  The  two 
Englishmen  leaped  ashore.  Either  from  dullness 
or  astonishment  the  peasants  gave  no  greeting, 
and  only  fell  back  in  silence. 

Mr.  Byrne  had  made  up  his  mind  to  see  Tom 
Corbin  started  fairly  on  his  way.  He  looked 
round  at  the  heavy  surprised  faces. 

"There  isn't  much  to  get  out  of  them,"  he 
said.  *'Let  us  walk  up  to  the  village.  There 
will  be  a  wine  shop  for  sure  where  we  may  find 
somebody  more  promising  to  talk  to  and  get 
some  information  from." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  said  Tom,  falling  into  step  be- 
hind his  officer.  "A  bit  of  palaver  as  to  courses 
and  distances  can  do  no  harm;  I  crossed  the 
broadest  part  of  Cuba  by  the  help  of  my  tongue 
tho*  knowing  far  less  Spanish  than  I  do  now.  As 
they  say  it  themselves  it  was  '  four  words  and  no 
more '  with  me,  that  time  when  I  got  left  behind 
on  shore  by  the  Blanche,  frigate." 

He  made  light  of  what  was  before  him,  which 
was  but  a  day's  journey  into  the  mountains.  It 
is  true  that  there  was  a  full  day's  journey  before 


196    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

striking  the  mountain  path,  but  that  was  noth- 
ing for  a  man  who  had  crossed  the  island  of 
Cuba  on  his  two  legs,  and  with  no  more  than 
four  words  of  the  language  to  begin  with. 

The  oflBcer  and  the  man  were  walking  now  on 
a  thick  sodden  bed  of  dead  leaves,  which  the 
peasants  thereabouts  accumulate  in  the  streets  of 
their  villages  to  rot  during  the  winter  for  field 
manure.  Turning  his  head  Mr.  Byrne  perceived 
that  the  whole  male  population  of  the  hamlet 
was  following  them  on  the  noiseless  springy 
carpet.  Women  stared  from  the  doors  of  the 
houses  and  the  children  had  apparently  gone 
into  hiding.  The  village  knew  the  ship  by  sight, 
afar  off,  but  no  stranger  had  landed  on  that  spot 
perhaps  for  a  hundred  years  or  more.  The 
I  cocked  hat  of  Mr.  Byrne,  the  bushy  whiskers 
\  and  the  enormous  pigtail  of  the  sailor,  filled  them 
with  mute  wonder.  They  pressed  behind  the 
two  Englishmen  staring  like  those  islanders  dis- 
covered by  Captain  Cook  in  the  South  Seas. 

It  was  then  that  Byrne  had  his  first  glimpse  of 
the  little  cloaked  man  in  a  yellow  hat.  Faded 
and  dingy  as  it  was,  this  covering  for  his  head 
made  him  noticeable. 

The  entrance  to  the  wine  shop  was  like  a 
rough  hole  in  a  wall  of  flints.  The  owner  was 
the  only  person  who  was  not  in  the  street,  for 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    197 

he  came  out  from  the  darkness  at  the  back  where 
the  inflated  forms  of  wine  skins  hung  on  nails 
could  be  vaguely  distinguished.  He  was  a 
tall,  one-eyed  Asturian  with  scrubby,  hollow 
cheeks;  a  grave  expression  of  countenance  con- 
trasted enigmatically  with  the  roaming  restless- 
ness of  his  solitary  eye.  On  learning  that  the 
matter  in  hand  was  the  sending  on  his  way  of 
that  English  mariner  toward  a  certain  Gonzales 
in  the  mountains,  he  closed  his  good  eye  for  a 
moment  as  if  in  meditation.  Then  opened  it, 
very  lively  again. 

"Possibly,  possibly.  It  could  be  done." 
A  friendly  murmur  arose  in  the  group  in  the 
doorway  at  the  name  of  Gonzales,  the  local 
leader  against  the  French.  Inquiring  as  to  the 
safety  of  the  road  Byrne  was  glad  to  learn  that 
no  troops  of  that  nation  had  been  seen  in  the 
neighbourhood  for  months.  Not  the  smallest 
little  detachment  of  these  impious  polizones. 
While  giving  these  answers  the  owner  of  the 
wine-shop  busied  himself  in  drawing  into  an 
earthenware  jug  some  wine  which  he  set  before 
the  heretic  English,  pocketing  with  grave  ab- 
straction the  small  piece  of  money  the  oflficer 
threw  upon  the  table  in  recognition  of  the  un- 
written law  that  none  may  enter  a  wine-shop 
without  buying  drink.     His  eye  was  in  con- 


198     THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

stant  motion  as  if  it  were  trying  to  do  the  work 
of  the  two;  but  when  Byrne  made  inquiries  as 
to  the  possibiKty  of  hiring  a  mule,  it  became 
immovably  fixed  in  the  direction  of  the  door 
which  was  closely  besieged  by  the  curious. 
In  front  of  them,  just  within  the  threshold,  the 
little  man  in  the  large  cloak  and  yellow  hat  had 
taken  his  stand.  He  was  a  diminutive  person, 
a  mere  homunculus,  Byrne  describes  him,  in  a 
ridiculously  mysterious,  yet  assertive  attitude, 
a  corner  of  his  cloak  thrown  cavalierly  over  his 
left  shoulder,  muffling  his  chin  and  mouth; 
while  the  broad-brimmed  yellow  hat  hung  on  a 
corner  of  his  square  little  head.  He  stood  there 
taking  snuff,  repeatedly. 

"A  mule,"  repeated  the  wine-seller,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  that  quaint  and  snuffy  figure.  .  .  . 
"No,  senor  officer!  Decidedly  no  mule  is  to 
be  got  in  this  poor  place." 

The  coxswain,  who  stood  by  with  the  true 
sailor's  air  of  unconcern  in  strange  surround- 
ings, struck  in  quietly — 

"If  your  honour  will  believe  me  Shank's 
pony's  the  best  for  this  job.  I  would  have  to 
leave  the  beast  somewhere,  anyhow,  since  the 
captain  has  told  me  that  half  my  way  will  be 
along  paths  fit  only  for  goats." 

The  diminutive  man  made  a  step  forward,  and 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES     199 

speaking  through  the  folds  of  the  cloak  which 
seemed  to  muffle  a  sarcastic  intention — 

"  Si,  senor.  They  are  too  honest  in  this  vil- 
lage to  have  a  single  mule  amongst  them  for 
your  worship's  service.  To  that  I  can  bear 
testimony.  In  these  times  it's  only  rogues  or 
very  clever  men  who  can  manage  to  have  mules 
or  any  other  four-footed  beasts  and  the  where- 
withal to  keep  them.  But  what  this  valiant 
mariner  wants  is  a  guide;  and  here,  senor,  be- 
hold my  brother-in-law,  Bernardino,  wine-seller, 
and  alcade  of  this  most  Christian  and  hospitable 
village,  who  will  find  you  one." 

This,  Mr.  Byrne  says  in  his  relation,  was  the 
only  thing  to  do.  A  youth  in  a  ragged  coat 
and  goatskin  breeches  was  produced  after  some 
more  talk.  The  English  officer  stood  treat  to 
the  whole  village,  and  while  the  peasants  drank 
he  and  Cuba  Tom  took  their  departure  accom- 
panied by  the  guide.  The  diminutive  man  in 
the  cloak  had  disappeared. 

Byrne  went  along  with  the  coxswain  out  of 
the  village.  He  wanted  to  see  him  fairly  on  his 
way;  and  he  would  have  gone  a  greater  distance, 
if  the  seaman  had  not  suggested  respectfully 
the  advisability  of  return  so  as  not  to  keep  the 
ship  a  moment  longer  than  necessary  so  close 
in  with  the  shore  on  such  an  unpromising  look- 


200      THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

ing  morning.  A  wild  gloomy  sky  hung  over 
their  heads  when  they  took  leave  of  each  other, 
and  their  surroundings  of  rank  bushes  and 
stony  fields  were  dreary. 

"In  four  days'  time,"  were  Byrne's  last  words, 
"the  ship  will  stand  in  and  send  a  boat  on  shore 
if  the  weather  permits.  If  not  you'll  have  to 
make  it  out  on  shore  the  best  you  can  till  we 
come  along  to  take  you  off." 

"Right  you  are,  sir,"  answered  Tom,  and 
strode  on.  Byrne  watched  him  step  out  on  a 
narrow  path.  In  a  thick  pea-jacket  with  a 
pair  of  pistols  in  his  belt,  a  cutlass  by  his  side, 
and  a  stout  cudgel  in  his  hand,  he  looked  a 
sturdy  figure  and  well  able  to  take  care  of  him- 
self. He  turned  round  for  a  moment  to  wave 
his  hand,  giving  to  Byrne  one  more  view  of  his 
honest  bronzed  face  with  bushy  whiskers.  The 
lad  in  goatskin  breeches  looking,  Byrne  says, 
like  a  faun  or  a  young  satyr  leaping  ahead, 
stopped  to  wait  for  him,  and  then  went  off  at  a 
bound.     Both  disappeared. 

Byrne  turned  back.  The  hamlet  was  hidden 
in  a  fold  of  the  ground,  and  the  spot  seemed  the 
most  lonely  corner  of  the  earth  and  as  if  accursed 
in  its  uninhabited  desolate  barrenness.  Before 
he  had  walked  many  yards,  there  appeared  very 
suddenly  from  behind  a  bush  the  muffled  up 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    201 

diminutive  Spaniard.  Naturally  Byrne  stopped 
short. 

The  other  made  a  mysterious  gesture  with  a 
tiny  hand  peeping  from  under  his  cloak.  His 
hat  hung  very  much  at  the  side  of  his  head. 
*'Senor,"  he  said  without  any  preliminaries. 
"Caution!  It  is  a  positive  fact  that  one-eyed 
Bernardino,  my  brother-in-law,  has  at  this  mo- 
ment a  mule  in  his  stable.  And  why  he  who  is 
not  clever  has  a  mule  there  .^  Because  he  is  a 
rogue;  a  man  without  conscience.  Because 
I  had  to  give  up  the  macho  to  him  to  secure  for 
myself  a  roof  to  sleep  under  and  a  mouthful  of 
olla  to  keep  my  soul  in  this  insignificant  body  of 
mine.  Yet,  seiior,  it  contains  a  heart  many 
times  bigger  than  the  mean  thing  which  beats 
in  the  breast  of  that  brute  connection  of  mine 
of  which  I  am  ashamed,  though  I  opposed  that 
marriage  with  all  my  power.  Well,  the  mis- 
guided woman  suffered  enough.  She  had  her 
purgatory  on  this  earth — God  rest  her  soul." 

Byrne  says  he  was  so  astonished  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  that  sprite-like  being,  and  by  the 
sardonic  bitterness  of  the  speech,  that  he  was 
unable  to  disentangle  the  significant  fact  from 
what  seemed  but  a  piece  of  family  history 
fired  out  at  him  without  rhyme  or  reason.  Not 
at  first.     He  was  confounded  and  at  the  same 


202    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

time  he  was  impressed  by  the  rapid  forcible 
delivery,  quite  different  from  the  frothy  excited 
loquacity  of  an  Italian.  So  he  stared  while  the 
homunculus,  letting  his  cloak  fall  about  him, 
aspired  an  immense  quantity  of  snuff  out  of  the 
hollow  of  his  palm. 

"A  mule,"  exclaimed  Byrne,  seizing  at  last 
the  real  aspect  of  the  discourse.  "You  say  he 
has  got  a  mule.?  That's  queer!  Why  did  he 
refuse  to  let  me  have  it.^^ " 

The  diminutive  Spaniard  muffled  himself  up 
again  with  great  dignity. 

''Quien  sabe,''  he  said  coldly,  with  a  shrug  of 
his  draped  shoulders.  "He  is  a  great  'politico  in 
everything  he  does.  But  one  thing  your  wor- 
ship may  be  certain  of — that  his  intentions  are 
always  rascally.  This  husband  of  my  defunta 
sister  ought  to  have  been  married  a  long  time 
ago  to  the  widow  with  the  wooden  legs."^ 

"I  see.  But  remember  that,  whatever  your 
motives,  your  worship  countenanced  him  in  this 
lie." 

The  bright  unhappy  eyes  on  each  side  of  a  pred- 
atory nose  confronted  Byrne  without  wincing, 
while  with  that  testiness  which  lurks  so  often  at 
the  bottom  of  Spanish  dignity — 

^The  gallows,  supposed  to  be  widowed  of  the  last  executed 
criminal  and  waiting  for  another. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    203 

**No  doubt  the  senor  officer  would  not  lose  an 
ounce  of  blood  if  I  were  stuck  under  the  fifth 
rib,"  he  retorted.  "But  what  of  this  poor 
sinner  here?  "  Then  changing  his  tone.  "Seiior, 
b^:_4he  necessities  of  the  times  I  live  here  in 
^  exile^a  Castilian  and  an  old  Christian,  existing 
miserably  in  the  midst  of  these  brute  Asturians, 
and  dependent  on  the  worst  of  them  all,  who 
has  less  conscience  and  scruples  than  a  wolf. 
And  being  a  man  of  intelligence  I  govern  myself 
accordingly.  Yet  I  can  hardly  contain  my 
scorn.  You  have  heard  the  way  I  spoke.  A 
caballero  of  jmrts  like  your  worship  might  have 
guessed  that  there  was  a  cat  in  there." 

"WTiat  cat.^"  said  Byrne  uneasily.  "Oh,  I 
see.  Something  suspicious.  No,  senor.  I 
guessed  nothing.  My  nation  are  not  good 
guessers  at  that  sort  of  thing;  and,  therefore,  I 
ask  you  plainly  whether  that  wine-seller  has 
spoken  the  truth  in  other  particulars.^ " 

"There  are  certainly  no  Frenchmen  any- 
where about,"  said  the  little  man  with  a  return 
to  his.  indifferent  manner. 

"Or  robbers — ladrones  P " 

''Ladrones  en  grande — no!  Assuredly  not," 
was  the  answer  in  a  cold  philosophical  tone. 
"WTiat  is  there  left  for  them  to  do  after  the 
French.^     And  nobody  travels  in  these  times. 


204    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

But  who  can  say!  Opportunity  makes  the 
robber.  Still  that  mariner  of  yours  has  a  fierce 
aspect,  and  with  the  son  of  a  cat  rats  will  have 
no  play.  But  there  is  a  saying,  too,  that  where 
honey  is  there  will  soon  be  flies." 

This  oracular  discourse  exasperated  Byrne. 
"In  the  name  of  God,"  he  cried,  "tell  me  plainly 
if  you  think  my  man  is  reasonably  safe  on  his 
journey." 

The  homunculus,  undergoing  one  of  his  rapid 
changes,  seized  the  officer's  arm.  The  grip  of 
his  little  hand  was  astonishing. 

"Senor!  Bernardino  had  taken  notice  of 
him.  What  more  do  you  want?  And  listen 
— men  have  disappeared  on  this  road — on  a 
certain  portion  of  this  road,  when  Bernardino 
kept  a  meson,  an  inn,  and  I,  his  brother-in-law, 
had  coaches  and  mules  for  hire.  Now  there 
are  no  travellers,  no  coaches.  The  French  have 
ruined  me.  Bernardino  has  retired  here  for 
reasons  of  his  own  after  my  sister  died.  They 
were  three  to  torment  the  life  out  of  her,  he 
and  Erminia  and  Lucilla,  two  aunts  of  his 
— all  affiliated  to  the  devil.  And  now  he  has 
robbed  me  of  my  last  mule.  You  are  an  armed 
man.  Demand  the  macho  from  him,  with  a 
pistol  to  his  head,  senor — it  is  not  his,  I  tell 
you — and  ride  after  your  man  who  is  so  pre- 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES     205 

cious  to  you.  And  then  you  shall  both  be  safe, 
for  no  two  travellers  have  been  ever  known  to 
disappear  together  in  those  days.  As  to  the 
beast,  I,  its  owner,  I  confide  it  to  your  honour." 

They  were  staring  hard  at  each  other,  and 
Byrne  nearly  burst  into  a  laugh  at  the  ingenuity 
and  transparency  of  the  little  man's  plot  to  re- 
gain possession  of  his  mule.  But  he  had  no 
difficulty  to  keep  a  straight  face  because  he  felt 
deep  within  himself  a  strange  inclination  to  do 
that  very  extraordinary  thing.  He  did  not 
laugh,  but  his  lip  quivered  at  which  the  dimin- 
utive Spaniard,  detaching  his  black  glittering 
eyes  from  Byrne's  face,  turned  his  back  on  him 
brusquely  with  a  gesture  and  a  fling  of  the  cloak 
which  somehow  expressed  contempt,  bitterness, 
and  discouragement  all  at  once.  He  turned 
away  and  stood  still,  his  hat  aslant,  muffled  up 
to  the  ears.  But  he  was  not  offended  to  the 
point  of  refusing  the  silver  duro  which  Byrne 
offered  him  with  a  non-committal  speech  as  if 
nothing  extraordinary  had  passed  between  them. 

"I  must  make  haste  on  board  now,"  said 
Byrne,  then. 

''Vaya  usted  con  Dios''  muttered  the  gnome. 
And  this  interview  ended  with  a  sarcastic  low 
sweep  of  the  hat  which  was  replaced  at  the  same 
perilous  angle  as  before. 


206     THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

Directly  the  boat  had  been  hoisted  the  ship's 
sails  were  filled  on  the  off-shore  tack,  and  Byrne 
imparted  the  whole  story  to  his  captain,  who  was 
but  a  very  few  years  older  than  himself.  There 
was  some  amused  indignation  at  it — but  while 
they  laughed  they  looked  gravely  at  each  other. 
A  Spanish  dwarf  trying  to  beguile  an  oflficer  of  his 
majesty's  navy  into  stealing  a  mule  for  him — 
that  was  too  funny,  too  ridiculous,  too  incredible. 
Those  were  the  exclamations  of  the  captain .  He 
couldn't  get  over  the  grotesqueness  of  it. 

"Incredible.  That's  just  it,"  murmured 
Byrne  at  last  in  a  significant  tone. 

They  exchanged  a  long  stare.  "It's  as  clear 
as  daylight,"  affirmed  the  captain  impatiently, 
because  in  his  heart  he  was  not  certain.  And 
Tom  the  best  seaman  in  the  ship  for  one,  the 
good-humouredly  deferential  friend  of  his  boy- 
hood for  the  other,  was  becoming  endowed  with 
^a  compelling  fascination,  like  a  symbolic  figure 
of  loyalty  appealing  to  their  feelings  and  their 
conscience,  so  that  they  could  not  detach  their 
thoughts  from  his  safety.  Several  times  they 
went  up  on  deck,  only  to  look  at  the  coast,  as  if 
it  could  tell  them  something  of  his  fate.  It 
stretched  away,  lengthening  in  the  distance, 
mute,  naked,  and  savage,  veiled  now  and  then  by 
the  slanting  cold  shafts  of  rain.      The  westerly 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES     207 

swell  rolled  its  interminable  angry  lines  of  foam 
and  big  dark  clouds  flew  over  the  ship  in  a  sin- 
ister procession. 

"I  wish  to  goodness  you  had  done  what  your 
little  friend  in  the  yellow  hat  wanted  you  to  do," 
said  the  commander  of  the  sloop  late  in  the 
afternoon  with  visible  exasperation. 

**Do  you,  sir.^"  answered  Byrne,  bitter  with 
positive  anguish.  "I  wonder  what  you  would 
have  said  afterward  ?  Why !  I  might  have  been 
kicked  out  of  the  service  for  looting  a  mule  from 
a  nation  in  alliance  with  His  Majesty.  Or  I 
might  have  been  battered  to  a  pulp  with  flails 
and  pitchforks — a  pretty  tale  to  get  abroad 
about  one  of  your  officers — while  trying  to  steal 
a  mule.  Or  chased  ignominiously  to  the  boat — 
for  you  would  not  have  expected  me  to  shoot 
down  unoffending  people  for  the  sake  of  a  mangy 
mule.  .  .  .  And  yet,"  he  added  in  a  low  voice, 
"I  almost  wished  myself  I  had  done  it." 

Before  dark  those  two  young  men  had  worked 
themselves  up  into  a  highly  complex  psycho- 
logical state  of  scornful  scepticism  and  alarmed 
credulity.  It  tormented  them  exceedingly;  and 
the  thought  that  it  would  have  to  last  for  six 
days  at  least,  and  possibly  be  prolonged  further 
for  an  indefinite  time,  was  not  to  be  borne.  The 
ship  was  therefore  put  on  the  inshore  tack  at 


208     THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

dark.  All  through  the  gusty  dark  night  she 
went  toward  the  land  to  look  for  her  man,  at 
times  lying  over  in  the  heavy  puffs,  at  others 
rolling  idle  in  the  swell,  nearly  stationary,  as  if 
she  too  had  a  mind  of  her  own  to  swing  perplexed 
between  cool  reason  and  warm  impulse. 

Then  just  at  daybreak  a  boat  put  off  from  her 
and  went  on  tossed  by  the  seas  toward  the 
shallow  cove  where,  with  considerable  difficulty, 
an  officer  in  a  thick  coat  and  a  round  hat  man- 
aged to  land  on  a  strip  of  shingle. 

"It  was  my  wish,"  writes  Mr.  Byrne,  "a  wish 
of  which  my  captain  approved,  to  land  secretly 
if  possible.  I  did  not  want  to  be  seen  either  by 
my  aggrieved  friend  in  the  yellow  hat,  whose 
motives  were  not  clear,  or  by  the  one-eyed  wine- 
seller,  who  may  or  may  not  have  been  affiliated 
to  the  devil,  or  indeed  by  any  other  dweller  in 
that  primitive  village.  But  unfortunately  the 
cove  was  the  only  possible  landing  place  for 
miles;  and  from  the  steepness  of  the  ravine  I 
couldn't  make  a  circuit  to  avoid  the  houses." 

"Fortunately,"  he  goes  on,  "all  the  people 
were  yet  in  their  beds.  It  was  barely  daylight 
when  I  found  myself  walking  on  the  thick  layer 
of  sodden  leaves  filling  the  only  street.  No  soul 
was  stirring  abroad,  no  dog  barked.  The  si- 
lence was  profound,  and  I  had  concluded  with 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    209 

some  wonder  that  apparently  no  dogs  were  kept 
in  the  hamlet,  when  I  heard  a  low  snarl,  and  from 
a  noisome  alley  between  two  hovels  emerged  a 
vile  cur  with  its  tail  between  its  legs.  He  slunk 
off  silently  showing  me  his  teeth  as  he  ran  before 
me,  and  he  disappeared  so  suddenly  that  he  might  ^ 
have  been  the  unclean  incarnation  of  the  Evil ""' 
One.  There  was,  too,  something  so  weird  in  the 
manner  of  its  coming  and  vanishing,  that  my 
spirits,  already  by  no  means  very  high,  became 
further  depressed  by  the  revolting  sight  of  this 
creature  as  if  by  an  unlucky  presage." 

He  got  away  from  the  coast  unobserved,  as  far 
as  he  knew,  then  struggled  manfully  to  the  west 
against  wind  and  rain,  on  a  barren  dark  upland, 
under  a  sky  of  ashes.  Far  away  the  harsh  and 
desolate  mountains  raising  their  scarped  and 
denuded  ridges  seemed  to  wait  for  him  menac- 
ingly. The  evening  found  him  fairly  near  to 
them,  but,  in  sailor  language,  uncertain  of  his 
position,  hungry,  wet,  and  tired  out  by  a  day  of 
steady  tramping  over  broken  ground  during 
which  he  had  seen  very  few  people,  and  had  been 
unable  to  obtain  the  slightest  intelligence  of  Tom 
Corbin's  passage.  "On!  on!  I  must  push  on," 
he  had  been  saying  to  himself  through  the  hours 
of  solitary  effort,  spurred  more  by  incertitude 
than  by  any  definite  fear  or  definite  hope. 


210    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

The  lowering  daylight  died  out  quickly,  leav- 
ing him  faced  by  a  broken  bridge.  He  de- 
scended into  the  ravine,  forded  a  narrow  stream 
by  the  last  gleam  of  rapid  water,  and  clambering 
out  on  the  other  side  was  met  by  the  night  which 
fell  like  a  bandage  over  his  eyes.  The  wind 
sweeping  in  the  darkness  the  broadside  of  the 
sierra  worried  his  ears  by  a  continuous  roaring 
noise  as  of  a  maddened  sea.  He  suspected 
that  he  had  lost  the  road.  Even  in  daylight, 
with  its  ruts  and  mudholes  and  ledges  of  out- 
cropping stone,  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish 
from  the  dreary  waste  of  the  moor  interspersed 
with  boulders  and  clumps  of  naked  bushes.  But, 
as  he  says,  "he  steered  his  course  by  the  feel  of 
the  wind,"  his  hat  rammed  low  on  his  brow,  his 
head  down,  stopping  now  and  again  from  mere 
weariness  of  mind  rather  than  of  body — as  if  not 
his  strength  but  his  resolution  were  being  over- 
taxed by  the  strain  of  endeavour  half  suspected 
to  be  vain,  and  by  the  unrest  of  his  feelings. 

In  one  of  these  pauses  borne  in  the  wind 
faintly  as  if  from  very  far  away  he  heard  a  sound 
of  knocking,  iust^]3i)cking-on^wood .  He  noticed 
that  the  wind  had  lulled  suddenly. 

His  heart  started  beating  tumultuously  be- 
cause in  himself  he  carried  the  impression  of  the 
desert  solitudes  he  had  been  traversing  for  the 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    211 

last  six  hours — the  oppressive  sense  of  an  unin- 
habited world.  When  he  raised  his  head  a 
gleam  of  light,  illusory  as  it  often  happens  in 
dense  darkness,  swam  before  his  eyes.  W^hile  he 
peered,  the  sound  of  feeble  knocking  was  re- 
peated— and  suddenly  he  felt  rather  than  saw 
the  existence  of  a  massive  obstacle  in  his  path. 
What  was  it.^  The  spur  of  a  hill.?  Or  was  it  a 
house!  Yes.  It  was  a  house  right  close,  as 
though  it  had  risen  from  the  ground  or  had  come 
gliding  to  meet  him,  dumb  and  pallid,  from  some 
dark  recess  of  the  night.  It  towered  loftily.  He 
had  come  up  under  its  lee;  another  three  steps 
and  he  could  have  touched  the  wall  with  his 
hand.  It  was  no  doubt  a  posada  and  some  other 
traveller  was  trying  for  admittance.  He  heard 
again  the  sound  of  cautious  knocking. 

Next  moment  a  broad  band  of  light  fell  into 
the  night  through  the  opened  door.  Byrne 
stepped  eagerly  into  it,  whereupon  the  person 
outside  leaped  with  a  stifled  cry  away  into  the 
night.  An  exclamation  of  surprise  was  heard 
too,  from  within.  Byrne,  flinging  himself  against 
the  half-closed  door,  forced  his  way  in  against 
some  considerable  resistance. 

A  miserable  candle,  a  mere  rushlight,  burned 
at  the  end  of  a  long  deal  table.  And  in  its  light 
Byrne  saw,  staggering  yet,  the  girl  he  had  driver 


212    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

from  the  door.  She  had  a  short  black  skirt,  an 
orange  shawl,  a  dark  complexion — and  the 
escaped  single  hairs  from  the  mass,  sombre  and 
thick  like  a  forest  and  held  up  by  a  comb,  made  a 
black  mist  about  her  low  forehead.  A  shrill 
lamentable  howl  of:  " Misericordia ! "  came  in 
two  voices  from  the  further  end  of  the  long  room, 
where  the  fire-light  of  an  open  hearth  played  be- 
tween heavy  shadows.  The  girl  recovering  her- 
self drew  a  hissing  breath  through  her  set  teeth. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  report  the  long  process  of 
questions  and  answers  by  which  he  soothed  the 
fears  of  two  old  women  who  sat  on  each  side  of 
the  fire,  on  which  stood  a  large  earthenware  pot. 
.^yrne  thought  at  once  of  two  witches  watching 
the  brewing  of  some  deadly  potion.  But  all  the 
same,  when  one  of  them  raising  forward  painfully 
her  broken  form  lifted  the  cover  of  the  pot,  the 
escaping  steam  had  an  appetizing  smell.  The 
other  did  not  budge,  but  sat  hunched  up,  her 
head  trembling  all  the  time. 

They  were  horrible.  There  was  something 
grotesque  in  their  decrepitude.  Their  toothless 
mouths,  their  hooked  noses,  the  meagreness  of 
the  active  one,  and  the  hanging  yellow  cheeks  of 
the  other  (the  still  one,  whose  head  trembled) 
would  have  been  laughable  if  the  sight  of  their 
dreadful   physical   degradation   had   not   been 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    213 

appalling  to  one's  eyes,  had  not  gripped  one's 
heart  with  poignant  amazement  at  the  unspeak- 
able misery  of  age,  at  the  awful  persistency  of  life 
becoming  at  last  an  object  of  disgust  and  dread. 

To  get  over  it  Byrne  began  to  talk,  saying  that 
he  was  an  Englishman,  and  that  he  was  in 
search  of  a  countryman  who  ought  to  have 
passed  this  way.  Directly  he  had  spoken  the 
recollection  of  his  parting  with  Tom  came  up  in 
his  mind  with  amazing  vividness:  the  silent 
villagers,  the  angry  gnome,  the  one-eyed  wine- 
seller,  Bernardino.  \Yhy!  These  two  un- 
speakable frights  must  be  that  man's  aunts — 
affiliated  to  the  devil. 

W^hatever  they  had  been  once  it  w^as  impos- 
sible to  imagine  what  use  such  feeble  creatures 
could  be  to  the  devil,  now,  in  the  world  of  the 
living.  W'hich  was  Lucilla  and  w^hich  w^as  , 
Erminia?  They  w^ere  now  things  without  a  t/^ 
name.  A  moment  of  suspended  animation 
followed  Byrne's  words.  The  sorceress  w4th 
the  spoon  ceased  stirring  the  mess  in  the  iron 
pot,  the  very  trembling  of  the  other's  head 
stopped  for  the  space  of  breath.  In  this  in- 
finitesimal fraction  of  a  second  Byrne  had  the 
sense  of  being  really  on  his  quest,  of  having 
reached  the  turn  of  the  path,  almost  within  hail 
of  Tom. 


214    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

"They  have  seen  him,"  he  thought  with  con- 
viction. Here  was  at  last  somebody  who  had 
seen  him.  He  made  sure  they  would  deny  all 
knowledge  of  the  Ingles;  but  on  the  contrary 
they  were  eager  to  tell  him  that  he  had  eaten 
and  slept  the  night  in  the  house.  They  both 
started  talking  together,  describing  his  appear- 
ance and  behaviour.  An  excitement  quite  fierce 
in  its  feebleness  possessed  them.  The  doubled- 
up  sorceress  flourished  aloft  her  wooden  spoon, 
the  puffy  monster  got  off  her  stool  and  screeched, 
stepping  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  while  the 
trembling  of  her  head  was  accelerated  to  posi- 
tive vibration.  Byrne  was  quite  disconcerted 
by  their  excited  behaviour.  .  .  .  Yes !  The 
big,  fierce  Ingles  went  away  in  the  morning,  after 
eating  a  piece  of  bread  and  drinking  some  wine. 
And  if  the  caballero  wished  to  follow  the  same 
path  nothing  could  be  easier — in  the  morning. 

"You  will  give  me  somebody  to  show  me  the 
way.f^"  said  Byrne. 

"Si,  senor.  A  proper  youth.  The  man  the 
caballero  saw  going  out." 

"But  he  was  knocking  at  the  door,"  protested 
Byrne.  "  He  only  bolted  when  he  saw  me.  He 
1/was  coming  in." 

"  No !  No ! "  the  two  horrid  witches  screamed 
out  together.     "Going  out.     Going  out!" 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    215 

After  all  it  may  have  been  true.  The  sound 
of  knocking  had  been  faint,  elusive,  reflected 
Byrne.  Perhaps  only  the  effect  of  his  fancy. 
He  asked — 

*'Whoisthatman?" 

"Her  novio.''  They  screamed  pointing  to  the 
girl.  "He  is  gone  home  to  a  village  far  away 
from  here.  But  he  will  return  in  the  morning. 
Her  novio !  And  she  is  an  orphan — the  child 
of  poor  Christian  people.  She  lives  with  us  for 
the  love  of  God,  for  the  love  of  God." 

The  orphan  crouching  on  the  corner  of  the 
hearth  had  been  looking  at  Byrne.  He  thought 
that  she  was  more  like  a  child  of  Satan  kept 
there  by  these  two  weird  harridans  for  the  love 
of  the  Devil.  Her  eyes  were  a  little  oblique, 
her  mouth  rather  thick,  but  admirably  formed; 
her  dark  face  had  a  ^rild  beauty,  volugt^ous  and  i^ 
untamed.  As  to  the  character  of  her  steadfast 
gaze  attached  upon  him  with  a  sensuously 
savage  attention,  "to  know  what  it  was  like," 
says  Mr.  Byrne,  "you  have  only  to  observe  a 
hungry  cat  watching  a  bird  in  a  cage  or  a  mouse 
inside  a  trap." 

It  was  she  who  served  him  the  food,  of  which 
he  was  glad;  though  with  those  big  slanting 
black  eyes  examining  him  at  close  range,  as  if 
he  had  something  curious  written  on  his  face, 


216    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

she  gave  him  an  uncomfortable  sensation.  But 
anything  was  better  than  being  approached  by 
these  blear-eyed  nightmarish  witches.  His  ap- 
prehensions somehow  had  been  soothed;  per- 
haps by  the  sensation  of  warmth  after  severe 
exposure  and  the  ease  of  resting  after  the  ex- 
ertion of  fighting  the  gale  inch  by  inch  all  the 
way.  He  had  no  doubt  of  Tom's  safety.  He 
was  now  sleeping  in  the  mountain  camp  having 
been  met  by  Gonzales'  men. 

Byrne  rose,  filled  a  tin  goblet  with  wine  out 
of  a  skin  hanging  on  the  wall,  and  sat  down 
again.  The  witch  with  the  mummy  face  began 
to  talk  to  him,  ramblingly  of  old  times;  she 
boasted  of  the  inn's  fame  in  those  better  days. 
Great  people  in  their  own  coaches  stopped  there. 
An  archbishop  slept  once  in  the  casa,  a  long, 
long  time  ago. 

The  witch  with  the  puffy  face  |eemed  to  be 
listening  from  her  stool,  motionless,  except  for 
the  trembling  of  her  head.  The  girl  (Byrne 
was  certain  she  was  a  casual  gipsy  ai4mitted 
there  for  some  reason  or  other)  sat  on  the  b^arth 
stone  in  the  glow  of  the  embers.  She  hummed 
a  tune  to  herself,  rattling  a  pair  of  castanets 
slightly  now  and  then.  At  the  mention  of  the 
archbishop  she  chuckled  impiously  and  turned 
her  head  to  look  at  Byrne,  so  that  the  red  glow 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    217 

of  the  fire  flashed  in  her  black  eyes  and  on  her 
white  teeth  under  the  dark  cowl  of  the  enormous 
overmantel.     And  he  smiled  at  her. 

He  rested  now  in  the_  ease  of  security.  His 
advent  not  having  been  expected  there  could  be 
no  plot  against  him  in  existence.  Drowsiness 
stole  upon  his  senses.  He  enjoyed  it,  but  keep- 
ing a  hold,  so  he  thought  at  least,  on  his  wits; 
but  he  must  have  been  gone  further  than  he 
thought  because  he  was  startled  beyond  measure 
by  a  fiendish  uproar.  He  had  never  heard  any- 
thing so  pitilessly  strident  in  his  life.  The 
witches  had  started  a  fierce  quarrel  about  some- 
thing or  other.  Whatever  its  origin  they  were 
now  only  abusing  each  other  violently,  without 
arguments;  their  senile  screams  expressed  noth- 
ing but  wricked  anger  and  ferocious  dismay. 
The  gipsy  girl's  black  eyes  flew  from  one  to  the 
other.  Never  before  had  Byrne  felt  himself  so  y 
removed  from  fellowship  with  human  beings.  ^ 
Before  he  had  really  time  to  understand  the 
subject  of  the  quarrel,  the  girl  jumped  up  rat- 
thng  her  castanets  loudly.  A  silence  fefl.  She 
came  up  to  the  table  and  bending  over,  her  eyes 
in  his — 

"Senor,"  she  said  with  decision,  "You  shall 
sleep  in  the  archbishop's  room." 

Neithei:  of  the  witches  objected.     The  dried- 


v*: 


218    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

up  one  bent  double  was  propped  on  a  stick.  The 
puffy  faced  one  had  now  a  crutch. 

Byrne  got  up,  walked  to  the  door,  and  turn- 
ing the  key  in  the  enormous  lock  put  it  coolly 
in  his  pocket.  This  was  clearly  the  only  en- 
trance, and  he  did  not  mean  to  be  taken  un- 
awares by  whatever  danger  there  might  have 
been  lurking  outside.  When  he  turned  from 
the  door  he  saw  the  two  witches  "affiliated  to 
the  Devil"  and  the  Satanic  girl  looking  at  him 
in  silence.  He  wondered  if  Tom  Corbin  took 
the  same  precaution  last  night.  And  thinking 
of  him  he  had  again  that  queer  impression  of 
is  nearness.  The  world  was  perfectly  dumb. 
And  in  this  stillness  he  heard  the  blood  beating 
in  his  ears  with  a  confused  rushing  noise,  in 
which  there  seemed  to  be  a  voice  uttering  the 
words:  "Mr.  Byrne,  look  out,  sir."  Tom's 
voice.  He  shuddered;  for  the  delusions  of  the 
senses  of  hearing  are  the  most  vivid  of  all,  and 
from  their  nature  have  a  compelling  character. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  Tom  should  not  be 
there.  Again  a  slight  chill  as  of  stealthy  draught 
penetrated  through  his  very  clothes  and  passed 
over  all  his  body.  He  shook  off  the  impression 
with  an  effort. 

It  was  the  girl  who  preceded  him  upstairs 
carrying  an  iron  lamp  from  the  naked  flame  of 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    219 

which  ascended  a  thin  thread  of  smoke.  Her 
soiled  white  stockings  were  full  of  holes. 

With  the  same  quiet  resolution  w^ith  which  he 
had  locked  the  door  below,  Byrne  threw  open 
one  after  another  the  doors  in  the  corridor.  AH 
the  rooms  were  empty  except  for  some  non- 
descript lumber  in  one  or  two.  And  the  girl 
seeing  what  he  would  be  at  stopped  every  time, 
raising  the  smoky  light  in  each  doorway  pa- 
tiently. Meantime  she  observed  him  with  sus- 
tained attention.  The  last  door  of  all  she  threw 
open  herself. 

"You  sleep  here,  senor,"  she  murmured  in  a 
voice  light  like  a  child's  breath,  offering  him  the 
lamp. 

'* Buenos  noches,  senorita,''  he  said  politely, 
taking  it  from  her. 

She  didn't  return  the  wish  audibly,  though 
her  lips  did  move  a  little,  while  her  gaze  black 
like  a  starless  night  never  for  a  moment  wavered 
before  him.  He  stepped  in,  and  as  he  turned  to 
close  the  door  she  was  still  there  motionless  and 
disturbing,  with  her  voluptuous  mouth  and 
slanting  eyes,  with  the  expression  of  expectant 
sensual  ferocity  of  a  baffled  cat.  He  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  and  in  the  dumb  house  he  heard 
again  the  blood  pulsating  ponderously  in  his 
ears,  while  once  more  the  illusion  of  Tom's  voice 


220    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

speaking  earnestly  somewhere  near  by  was  spe- 
cially terrifying,  because  this  time  he  could  not 
make  out  the  words. 

He  slammed  the  door  in  the  girl's  face  at  last, 
leaving  her  in  the  dark;  and  he  opened  it  again 
almost  on  the  instant.  Nobody.  She  had  van- 
ished without  the  slightest  sound.  He  closed 
the  door  quickly  and  bolted  it  with  two  heavy 
bolts. 

A  profound  mistrust  possessed  him  suddenly. 
Why  did  the  witches  quarrel  about  letting  him 
sleep  here.^  And  what  meant  that  stare  of  the 
girl  as  if  she  wanted  to  impress  his  features  for 
ever  in  her  mind.^  His  own  nervousness  alarmed 
him.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  removed  very 
far  from  mankind. 

He  examined  his  room.  It  was  not  very  high, 
just  high  enough  to  take  the  bed  which  stood 
under  an  enormous  baldaquin-like  canopy  from 
which  fell  heavy  curtains  at  foot  and  head;  a 
bed  certainly  worthy  of  an  archbishop.  There 
was  a  heavy  table  carved  all  round  the  edges, 
some  arm-chairs  of  enormous  weight  like  the 
spoils  of  a  grandee's  palace;  a  tall  shallow  ward- 
robe placed  against  the  wall  and  with  double 
doors.  He  tried  them.  Locked.  A  suspicion 
came  into  his  mind,  and  he  snatched  the  lamp 
to  make  a  closer  examination.     No,  it  was  not 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    221 

a  disguised  entrance.  That  heavy,  tall  piece  of 
furniture  stood  clear  of  the  wall  by  quite  an 
inch.  He  glanced  at  the  bolts  of  his  room  door. 
No!  No  one  could  get  at  him  treacherously 
while  he  slept.  But  would  he  be  able  to  sleep? 
he  asked  himself  anxiously.  If  only  he  had 
Tom  there — the  trusty  seaman  who  had  fought 
at  his  right  hand  in  a  cutting  out  affair  or  two, 
and  had  always  preached  to  him  the  necessity 
to  take  care  of  himself.  "For  it's  no  great 
trick,"  he  used  to  say,  "to  get  yourself  killed  in 
a  hot  fight.  Any  fool  can  do  that.  The  proper 
pastime  is  to  fight  the  Frenchies  and  then  live 
to  fight  another  day." 

Byrne  found  it  a  hard  matter  not  to  fall  into 
listening  to  the  silence.  Somehow  he  had  the 
conviction  that  nothing  would  break  it  unless  he 
heard  again  the  haunting  sound  of  Tom's  voice. 
He  had  heard  it  twice  before.  Odd!  And  yet 
no  wonder,  he  argued  with  himself  reasonably, 
since  he  had  been  thinking  of  the  man  for  over 
thirty  hours  continuously  and,  what's  more,  in- 
conclusively. For  his  anxiety  for  Tom  had 
never  taken  a  definite  shape.  "Disappear"  was 
the  only  word  connected  with  the  idea  of  Tom's 
danger.  It  was  very  vague  and  awful.  "Dis- 
appear ! "     What  did  that  mean? 

Byrne  shuddered,  and  then  said  to  himself 


y 


222    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

that  he  must  be  a  Httle  feverish.  But  Tom  had 
not  disappeared.  Byrne  had  just  heard  of  him. 
And  again  the  young  man  felt  the  blood  beating 
in  his  ears.  He  sat  still  expecting  every  moment 
to  hear  through  the  pulsating  strokes  the  sound 
of  Tom's  voice.  He  waited  straining  his  ears, 
but  nothing  came.  Suddenly  the  thought 
occurred  to  him:  *'He  has  not  disappeared,  but 
he  cannot  make  himself  heard." 

He  jumped  up  from  the  arm-chair.  How 
absurd !  Laying  his  pistol  and  his  hanger  on  the 
table  he  took  off  his  boots  and,  feeling  suddenly 
too  tired  to  stand,  flung  himself  on  the  bed 
which  he  found  soft  and  comfortable  beyond  his 
hopes. 

He  had  felt  very  wakeful,  but  he  must  have 
dozed  off  after  all,  because  the  next  thing  he 
knew  he  was  sitting  up  in  bed  and  trying  to  recol- 
lect what  it  was  that  Tom's  voice  had  said.  Oh! 
He  remembered  it  now.  It  had  said:  "Mr. 
Byrne!  Look  out,  sir!"  A  warning  this.  But 
against  what? 

He  landed  with  one  leap  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  gasped  once,  then  looked  all  round  the 
room.  The  window  was  shuttered  and  barred 
with  an  iron  bar.  Again  he  ran  his  eyes  slowly 
all  round  the  bare  walls,  and  even  looked  up  at 
the  ceiling,  which  was  rather  high.     Afterward 


^  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    223 

he  went  to  the  door  to  examine  the  fastenings. 
They  consisted  of  two  enormous  iron  bolts  sliding 
into  holes  made  in  the  wall ;  and  as  the  corridor 
outside  was  too  narrow  to  admit  of  any  battering 
arrangement  or  even  to  permit  an  axe  to  be 
swung,  nothing  could  burst  the  door  open — un- 
less gunpowder.  But  while  he  was  still  making 
sure  that  the  lower  bolt  was  pushed  well  home,  , 
he  received  the  impression  of  somebody's  <X^ 
presence  in  the  room.  It  was  so  strong  that  he 
spun  round  quicker  than  lightning.  There  was 
no  one.    Who  could  there  be?    And  yet     .     .     . 

It  was  then  that  he  lost  the  decorum  and  re- 
straint a  man  keeps  up  for  his  own  sake.  He 
got  down  on  his  hands  and  knees,  with  the  lamp 
on  the  floor,  to  look  under  the  bed,  like  a  silly 
girl.  He  saw  a  lot  of  dust  and  nothing  else.  He 
got  up,  his  cheeks  burning,  and  walked  about 
discontented  with  his  own  behaviour  and  un- 
reasonably angry  with  Tom  for  not  leaving  him 
alone.  The  words:  "Mr.  Byrne!  Look  out, 
sir,"  kept  on  repeating  themselves  in  his  head  in 
a  tone  of  warning. 

"Hadn't  I  better  just  throw  myself  on  the  bed 
and  try  to  go  to  sleep,"  he  asked  himself.  But 
his  eyes  fell  on  the  tall  wardrobe,  and  he  went 
toward  it  feeling  irritated  with  himself  and  yet 
unable  to  desist.     How  he  could  explain  to- 


224    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

morrow  the  burglarious  misdeed  to  the  two 
odious  witches  he  had  no  idea.  Nevertheless  he 
inserted  the  point  of  his  hanger  between  the  two 
halves  of  the  door  and  tried  to  prize  them  open. 
They  resisted.  He  swore,  sticking  now  hotly  to 
his  purpose.  His  mutter:  "I  hope  you  will  be 
satisfied,  confound  you,"  was  addressed  to  the 
absent  Tom.  Just  then  the  doors  gave  way  and 
flew  open. 

He  was  there. 

He — the  trusty,  sagacious,  and  courageous 
Tom  was  there,  drawn  up  shadowy  and  stiff,  in 
prudent  silence,  which  his  wide-open  eyes  by 
their  fixed  gleam  seemed  to  command  Byrne 
to  respect.  But  Byrne  was  too  startled  to  make 
a  sound.  Amazed,  he  stepped  back  a  little — 
and  on  the  instant  the  seaman  flung  himself  for- 
ward headlong  as  if  to  clasp  his  officer  round  the 
neck.  Instinctively  Byrne  put  out  his  faltering 
arms ;  he  felt  the  horrible  rigidity  of  the  body  and 
then  the  coldness  of  death  as  their  heads  knocked 
together  and  their  faces  came  into  contact.  They 
reeled,  Byrne  hugging  Tom  close  to  his  breast  in 
order  not  to  let  him  fall  with  a  crash.  He  had 
just  strength  enough  to  lower  the  awful  burden 
gently  to  the  floor — then  his  head  swam,  his  legs 
gave  way,  and  he  sank  on  his  knees,  leaning  over 
the  body  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  breast  of 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    225 

that  man  once  full  of  generous  life,  and  now  as  in- 
sensible as  a  stone. 

"Dead!  my  poor  Tom,  dead,"  he  repeated 
mentally.  The  light  of  the  lamp  standing  near 
the  edge  of  the  table  fell  from  above  straight  on 
the  stony  empty  stare  of  these  eyes  which 
naturally  had  a  mobile  and  merry  expression. 
Byrne  turned  his  own  away  from  them.  Tom's 
black  silk  neckerchief  was  not  knotted  on  his 
breast.  It  was  gone.  The  murderers  had  also 
taken  off  his  shoes  and  stockings.  And  noticing 
this  spoliation,  the  exposed  throat,  the  bare  up- 
turned feet,  Byrne  felt  his  eyes  run  full  of  tears. 
In  other  respects  the  seaman  was  fully  dressed; 
neither  was  his  clothing  disarranged  as  it  must 
have  been  in  a  violent  struggle.  Only  his 
checked  shirt  had  been  pulled  a  little  out  the 
waistband  in  one  place,  just  enough  to  ascertain 
whether  he  had  a  money  belt  fastened  round  his 
body.    Byrne  began  to  sob  into  his  handkerchief. 

It  was  a  nervous  outburst  which  passed  off 
quickly.  Remaining  on  his  knees  he  contem- 
plated sadly  the  athletic  body  of  as  fine  a  sea- 
man as  ever  had  drawn  a  cutlass,  laid  a  gun,  or 
passed  the  weather  earring  in  a  gale,  lying  stiff 
and  cold,  his  cheery,  fearless  spirit  departed — 
perhaps  turning  to  him,  his  boy  chum,  to  his 
ship  out  there  rolling  on  the  grey  seas  off  an  iron- 


226    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

bound  coast,  at  the  very  moment  of  its  flight. 
He  perceived  that  the  six  brass  buttons  of 
Tom's  jacket  had  been  cut  off.  He  shuddered  at 
the  notion  of  the  two  miserable  and  repulsive 
witches  busying  themselves  ghoulishly  about  the 
defenceless  body  of  his  friend.  Cutoff.  Perhaps 
with  the  same  knife  which  .  .  .  The  head 
of  one  trembled;  the  other  was  bent  double,  and 
their  eyes  were  red  and  bleared,  their  infamous 
claws  unsteady.  ...  It  must  have  been  in 
this  very  room  too,  for  Tom  could  not  have  been 
killed  in  the  open  and  brought  in  here  afterward. 
Of  that  Byrne  was  certain.  Yet  those  devilish 
crones  could  not  have  killed  him  themselves 
even  by  taking  him  unawares — and  Tom  would 
be  always  on  his  guard  of  course.  Tom  was  a 
very  wideawake  wary  man  when  engaged  on 
any  service.  .  .  .  And  in  fact  how  did  they 
murder  him.^^    Who  did.^    In  what  way.^ 

Byrne  jumped  up,  snatched  the  lamp  off  the 
table,  and  stooped  swiftly  over  the  body.  The 
light  revealed  on  the  clothing  no  stain,  no  trace, 
no  spot  of  blood  anywhere.  Byrne's  hands  be- 
gan to  shake  so  that  he  had  to  set  the  lamp  on 
the  floor  and  turn  away  his  head  in  order  to  re- 
cover from  this  agitation. 

Then  he  began  to  explore  that  cold,  still,  and 
rigid  body  for  a  stab,  a  gunshot  wound,  for  the 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    227 

trace  of  some  killing  blow.  He  felt  all  over  the 
skull  anxiously.  It  was  whole.  He  slipped  his 
hand  under  the  neck.  It  was  unbroken.  With 
terrified  eyes  he  peered  close  under  the  chin  and 
saw  no  marks  of  strangulation  on  the  throat. 

There  were  no  signs  anywhere.  He  was  just 
dead. 

Impulsively  Byrne  got  away  from  the  body  as  \j 
if  the  mystery  of  an  incomprehensible  death  had 
changed  his  pity  into  suspicion  and  dread.  The 
lamp  on  the  floor  near  the  set,  still  face  of  the 
seaman  showed  it  staring  at  the  ceiling  as  if 
despairingly.  In  the  circle  of  light  Byrne  saw  by 
the  undisturbed  patches  of  thick  dust  on  the 
floor  that  there  had  been  no  struggle  in  that 
room.  "  He  has  died  outside,"  he  thought.  Yes, 
outside  in  that  narrow  corridor,  where  there 
was  hardly  room  to  turn,  the  mysterious  death 
had  come  to  his  poor  dear  Tom.  The  impulse  of 
snatching  up  his  pistols  and  rushing  out  of  the 
room  abandoned  Byrne  suddenly.  For  Tom, 
too,  had  been  armed — with  just  such  powerless 
weapons  as  he  himself  possessed — pistols,  a  cut- 
lass !  And  Tom  had  died  a  nameless  death,  by 
incomprehensible  means. 

A  new  thought  came  to  Byrne.  That  stranger 
knocking  at  the  door  and  fleeing  so  swiftly  at  his 
appearance  had  come  there  to  remove  the  body. 


7 


228    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

Aha!  That  was  the  guide  the  withered  witch 
had  promised  would  show  the  Enghsh  officer  the 
shortest  way  of  rejoining  his  man.  A  promise, 
he  saw  it  now,  of  dreadful  import.  He  who  had 
knocked  would  have  two  bodies  to  deal  with. 
Man  and  officer  would  go  forth  from  the  house 
together.  For  Byrne  was  certain  now  that  he 
would  have  to  die  before  the  morning — and  in 
the  same  mysterious  manner,  leaving  behind 
him  an  unmarked  body. 

The  sight  of  a  smashed  head,  of  a  cut  throat,  of 
a  gaping  gunshot  wound,  would  have  been  an  in- 
expressible relief.  It  would  have  soothed  all  his 
fears.  His  soul  cried  within  him  to  that  dead 
man  whom  he  had  never  found  wanting  in  dan- 
ger. "Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  I  am  to  look 
for,  Tom.^  Wliy  don't  you.^"  But  in  rigid  im- 
mobility, extended  on  his  back,  he  seemed  to  pre- 
serve an  austere  [silence,  as  if  disdaining  in  the 
finality  of  his  awful  knowledge  to  hold  converse 
with  the  living. 

Suddenly  Byrne  flung  himself  on  his  knees  by 
the  side  of  the  body,  and  dry-eyed,  fierce,  opened 
the  shirt  wide  on  the  breast,  as  if  to  tear  the 
secret  forcibly  from  that  cold  heart  which  had 
been  so  loyal  to  him  in  life !  Nothing!  Nothing! 
He  raised  the  lamp,  and  all  the  sign  vouchsafed 
to  him  by  that  face  which  used  to  be  so  kindly  in 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    229 

expression  was  a  small  bruise  on  the  forehead — 
the  least  thing,  a  mere  mark.  The  skin  even 
was  not  broken.  He  stared  at  it  a  long  time  as  if 
lost  in  a  dreadful  dream.  Then  he  observed  that 
Tom's  hands  were  clenched  as  though  he  had 
fallen  facing  somebody  in  a  fight  with  fists.  His 
knuckles,  on  closer  view,  appeared  somewhat 
abraded.     Both  hands. 

The  discovery  of  these  slight  signs  was  more 
appalling  to  Byrne  than  the  absolute  absence  of 
every  mark  would  have  been.  So  Tom  had  died 
striking  against  something  which  could  be  hit, 
and  yet  could  kill  one  without  leaving  a  wound — 
by  a  breath. 

Terror,  hot  terror,  began  to  play  about 
Byrne's  heart  like  a  tongue  of  flame  that  touches 
and  withdraws  before  it  turns  a  thing  to  ashes. 
He  backed  away  from  the  body  as  far  as  he 
could,  then  came  forward  stealthily  casting  fear- 
ful glances  to  steal  another  look  at  the  bruised 
forehead.  There  would  perhaps  be  such  a  faint 
bruise  on  his  own  forehead — before  the  morning. 

*'I  can't  bear  it,"  he  whispered  to  himself. 
Tom  was  for  him  now  an  object  of  horror,  a 
sight  at  once  tempting  and  revolting  to  his 
fear.     He  couldn't  bear  to  look  at  him. 

At  last,  desperation  getting  the  better  of  his 
increasing  horror,  he  stepped  forward  from  the 


230    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

wall  against  which  he  had  been  leaning,  seized 
the  corpse  under  the  armpits,  and  began  to  lug 
it  over  to  the  bed.  The  bare  heels  of  the  sea- 
man trailed  on  the  floor  noiselessly.  He  was 
heavy  with  the  dead  weight  of  inanimate  ob- 
jects. With  aTast  etiort  Byrne  landed  him  face 
downward  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  rolled  him 
over,  snatched  from  under  this  stiff  passive 
thing  a  sheet  with  which  he  covered  it  over. 
Then  he  spread  the  curtains  at  head  and  foot 
so  that  joining  together  as  he  shook  their  folds 
they  hid  the  bed  altogether  from  his  sight. 

He  stumbled  toward  a  chair,  and  fell  on  it. 
The  perspiration  poured  from  his  face  for  a 
moment,  and  then  his  veins  seemed  to  carry 
for  a  while  a  thin  stream  of  half -frozen  blood. 
Complete  terror  had  possession  of  him  now,  a 
nameless  terror  which  had  turned  his  heart  to 
ashes. 

He  sat  upright  in  the  straight-backed  chair, 
the  lamp  burning  at  his  feet,  his  pistols  and  his 
hanger  at  his  left  elbow  on  the  end  of  the  table, 
his  eyes  turning  incessantly  in  their  sockets 
round  the  walls,  over  the  ceiling,  over  the  floor, 
in  the  expectation  of  a  mysterious  and  appalling 
vision.  The  thing  which  could  deal  death  in  a 
breath  was  outside  that  bolted  door.  But 
Byrne  believed  neither  in  walls  nor  bolts  now. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    231 

Unreasoning  terror  turning  everything  to  ac- 
count, his  old  time  boyish  admiration  of  the 
athletic  Tom,  the  undaunted  Tom  (he  had 
seemed  to  him  invincible),  helped  to  paralyse 
his  faculties,  added  to  his  despair. 

He  was  no  longer  Edgar  Byrne.  He  was  a 
tortured  soul  suffering  more  anguish  than  any 
sinner's  body  had  ever  suffered  from  rack  or 
boot.  The  depth  of  his  torment  may  be  meas- 
ured when  I  say  that  this  young  man,  as  brave 
at  least  as  the  average  of  his  kind,  contemplated  , 
seizing  a  pistol  and  firing  into  his  own  head.i/ 
But  a  deadly,  chilly  languor  was  spreading  over 
his  limbs.  It  was  as  if  his  flesh  had  been  wet 
plaster  stiffening  slowly  about  his  ribs.  Pres- 
ently, he  thought,  the  two  witches  will  be 
coming  in,  with  crutch  and  stick — horrible, 
grotesque,  monstrous — affiliated  to  the  devil — 
to  put  a  mark  on  his  forehead,  the  tiny  little 
bruise  of  death.  And  he  wouldn't  be  able 
to  do  anything.  Tom  had  struck  out  at  some- 
thing, but  he  was  not  like  Tom.  His  limbs  were 
dead  already.  He  sat  still,  dying  the  death  over 
and  over  again;  and  the  only  part  of  him  which 
moved  were  his  eyes,  turning  round  and  round 
in  their  sockets,  running  over  the  walls,  the 
floor,  the  ceiling,  again  and  again  till  suddenly 
they   became   motionless   and   stony — starting 


232    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

out  of  'his  head  fixed  in  the  direction  of  the 
bed. 

He  had  seen  the  heavy  curtains  stir  and  shake 
as  if  the  dead  body  they  concealed  had  turned 
over  and  sat  up.  Byrne,  who  thought  the  world 
could  hold  no  more  terrors  in  store,  felt  his  hair 
stir  at  the  roots.  He  gripped  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  his  jaw  fell,  and  the  sweat  broke  out  on  his 
brow  while  his  dry  tongue  clove  suddenly  to  the 
roof  of  his  mouth.  Again  the  curtains  stirred, 
but  did  not  open.  "  Don't,  Tom ! "  Byrne  made 
effort  to  shout,  but  all  he  heard  was  a  slight 
moan  such  as  an  uneasy  sleeper  may  make. 
He  felt  that  his  brain  was  going,  for,  now,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  ceiling  over  the  bed 
had  moved,  had  slanted,  and  came  level  again — 
and  once  more  the  closed  curtains  swayed  gently 
as  if  about  to  part. 

Byrne  closed  his  eyes  not  to  see  the  awful  ap- 
parition of  the  seaman's  corpse  coming  out 
animated  by  an  evil  spirit.  In  the  profound 
silence  of  the  room  he  endured  a  moment  of 
frightful  agony,  then  opened  his  eyes  again. 
And  he  saw  at  once  that  the  curtains  remained 
closed  still,  but  that  the  ceiling  over  the  bed 
had  risen  quite  a  foot.  With  the  last  gleam  of 
reason  left  to  him  he  understood  that  it  was 
the  enormous  baldaquin  over  the  bed  which 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    233 

was  coming  down,  while  the  curtains  attached 
to  it  swayed  softly,  sinking  gradually  to  the 
floor.  His  drooping  jaw  snapped  to — and  half 
rising  in  his  chair  he  watched  mutely  the  noise- 
less descent  of  the  monstrous  canopy.  It  came 
down  in  short  smooth  rushes  till  lowered  half 
way  or  more,  when  it  took  a  run  and  settled 
swiftly  its  turtle-back  shape  with  the  deep 
border  piece  fitting  exactly  the  edge  of  the  bed- 
stead. A  slight  crack  or  two  of  wood  were 
heard,  and  the  overpowering  stillness  of  the  room 
resumed  its  sway. 

Byrne  stood  up,  gasped  for  breath,  and  let  out 
a  cry  of  rage  and  dismay,  the  first  sound  which 
he  is  perfectly  certain  did  make  its  way  past  his 
lips  on  this  night  of  terrors.  This  then  was  the 
death  he  had  escaped!  This  was  the  devilish 
artifice  of  murder  poor  Tom's  soul  had  perhaps 
tried  from  beyond  the  border  to  warn  him  of. 
For  this  was  how  he  had  died.  Byrne  was  cer- 
tain he  had  heard  the  voice  of  the  seaman,  faintly 
distinct  in  his  familiar  phrase,  "Mr.  Byrne! 
Look  out,  sir!"  and  again  uttering  words  he 
could  not  make  out.  But  then  the  distance 
separating  the  living  from  the  dead  is  so  great! 
Poor  Tom  had  tried.  Byrne  ran  to  the  bed  and 
attempted  to  lift  up,  to  push  off  the  horrible  lid 
smothering  the  body.     It  resisted  his  efforts, 


234    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

heavy  as  lead,  immovable  like  a  tombstone.  The 
rage  of  vengeance  made  him  desist;  his  head 
buzzed  with  chaotic  thoughts  of  extermination, 
he  turned  round  the  room  as  if  he  could  find 
neither  his  weapons  nor  the  way  out;  and  all  the 
time  he  stammered  awful  menaces.     .     .     . 

A  violent  battering  at  the  door  of  the  inn  re- 
called him  to  his  soberer  senses.  He  flew  to  the 
window,  pulled  the  shutters  open,  and  looked 
out.  In  the  faint  dawn  he  saw  below  him  a 
mob  of  men.  Ha!  He  would  go  and  face  at 
once  this  murderous  lot  collected  no  doubt  for 
his  undoing.  After  his  struggle  with  nameless 
terrors  he  yearned  for  an  open  fray  with  armed 
enemies.  But  he  must  have  remained  yet 
bereft  of  his  reason,  because  forgetting  his  weap- 
ons he  rushed  downstairs  with  a  wild  cry,  un- 
barred the  door  while  blows  were  raining  on  it 
outside,  and  flinging  it  open  flew  with  his  bare 
hands  at  the  throat  of  the  first  man  he  saw 
before  him.  They  rolled  over  together.  Byrne's 
hazy  intention  was  to  break  through,  to  fly  up 
the  mountain  path,  and  come  back  presently 
with  Gonzales'  men  to  exact  an  exemplary 
vengeance.  He  fought  furiously  till  a  tree, 
a  house,  a  mountain,  seemed  to  crash  down 
upon  his  head — and  he  knew  no  more. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    235 

Here  Mr.  Byrne  describes  in  detail  the  skilful 
manner  in  which  he  found  his  broken  head  band- 
aged, informs  us  that  he  had  lost  a  great  deal  of 
blood,  and  ascribes  the  preservation  of  his  sanity 
to  that  circumstance.  He  sets  down  Gonzales' 
profuse  apologies  in  full  too.  For  it  was  Gon- 
zales who,  tired  of  waiting  for  news  from  the 
English,  had  come  down  to  the  inn  with  half  his 
band,  on  his  way  to  the  sea.  "His  excellency,"  he 
explained,  "rushed  out  with  fierce  impetuosity, 
and,  moreover,  was  not  known  to  us  for  a  friend, 
and  so  we  .  .  .  etc.,  etc.  When  asked 
what  had  become  of  the  witches,  he  only  pointed 
his  finger  silently  to  the  ground,  then  voiced 
calmly  a  moral  reflection :  '  The  passion  for  gold 
is  pitiless  in  the  very  old,  senor,'  he  said.  *No 
doubt  in  former  days  they  have  put  many  a  soli- 
tary traveller  to  sleep  in  the  archbishop's  bed.'  " 

"There  was  also  a  gipsy  girl  there,"  said 
Byrne  feebly  from  the  improvised  litter  on 
which  he  was  being  carried  to  the  coast  by  a 
squad  of  guerilleros. 

"It  was  she  who  winched  up  that  infernal 
machine,  and  it  was  she  too  who  lowered  it  that 
night,"  was  the  answer. 

"But  why?  Why?"  exclaimed  Byrne.  "Why 
should  she  wish  for  my  death?" 

"No  doubt  for  the  sake  of  your  excellency's 


236    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

coat  buttons,"  said  politely  the  saturnine  Gon- 
zales. "We  found  those  of  the  dead  mariner 
concealed  on  her  person.  But  your  excellency 
may  rest  assured  that  everything  that  is  fitting 
has  been  done  on  this  occasion." 

Byrne  asked  no  more  questions.  There  was 
still  another  death  which  was  considered  by 
Gonzales  as  "fitting  to  the  occasion."  The 
one-eyed  Bernardino  stuck  against  the  wall  of 
his  wine-shop  received  the  charge  of  six  escopet- 
tas  into  his  breast.  As  the  shots  rang  out  the 
rough  bier  with  Tom's  body  on  it  went  past 
carried  by  a  bandit-like  gang  of  Spanish  patriots 
down  the  ravine  to  the  shore,  where  two  boats 
from  the  ship  were  waiting  for  what  was  left 
on  earth  of  her  best  seaman. 

Mr.  Byrne,  very  pale  and  weak,  stepped  into 
the  boat  which  carried  the  body  of  his  humble 
friend.  For  it  was  decided  that  Tom  Corbin 
should  rest  far  out  in  the  bay  of  Biscay.  The 
officer  took  the  tiller  and,  turning  his  head  for 
the  last  look  at  the  shore,  saw  on  the  grey  hill- 
side something  moving,  which  he  made  out  to  be 
a  little  man  in  a  yellow  hat  mounted  on  a  mule 
— that  mule  without  which  the  fate  of  Tom  Cor- 
bin would  have  remained  mysterious  for  ever. 

June,  1913. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 


While  we  were  hanging  about  near  the  water's 
edge,  as  sailors  idhng  ashore  will  do  (it  was  in  the 
open  smce  before  the  Harbour  OiBSce  of  a  great 
pastern  |)ort),  a  man  came  toward  us  from  the 
'  ifoirF''  of  business  houses,  aiming  obliquely  at 
the  landing  steps.  He  attracted  my  attention 
because  in  the  movement  of  figures  in  white  drill 
suits  on  the  pavement  from  which  he  stepped, 
his  costume,  the  usual  tunic  and  trousers,  being 
made  of  light  grey  flannel,  made  him  noticeable. 

I  had  time  to  observe  him.  He  was  stout, 
but  he  was  not  grotesque.  His  face  was  round 
and  smooth,  his  complexion  very  fair.  On  his 
nearer  approach  I  saw  a  little  mustache  made 
all  the  fairer  by  a  good  many  white  hairs.  And 
he  had,  for  a  stout  man,  quite  a  good  chin.  In 
passing  us  he  exchanged  nods  with  the  friend  I 
was  with  and  smiled. 

My  friend  was  Hollis,  the  fellow  who  had  so 
many  adventures  and  had  known  so  many  queer 

239 


£40         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

people  in  that  part  of  the  (more  or  less)  gorgeous 
East  in  the  days  of  his  youtEnie  said:  "That's 
a  good  man.  I  don't  mean  good  in  the  sense 
of  smart  or  skilful  in  his  trade.  I  mean  a  really 
good  man." 

I  turned  round  at  once  to  look  at  the  phe- 
nomenon. The  "really  good  man"  had  a  very 
broad  back.  I  saw  him  signal  a  sampan  to  come 
alongside,  get  into  it,  and  go  off  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  cluster  of  local  steamers  anchored  close 
inshore. 

I  said:  "He's  a  seaman,  isn't  he.^^" 
"Yes.  Commands  that  biggish  dark-green 
steamer:  'Sissie — Glasgow.'  He  has  never 
commanded  anything  else  but  the  '  Sissie — 
Glasgow,'  only  it  wasn't  always  the  same  Sissie. 
The  first  he  had  was  about  half  the  length  of  this 
one,  and  we  used  to  tell  poor  Davidson  that  she 
was  a  size  too  small  for  him.  Even  at  that  time 
Davidson  had  bulk.  We  warned  him  he  would 
get  callosities  on  his  shoulders  and  elbows  be- 
cause of  the  tight  fit  of  his  command.  And 
Davidson  could  well  afford  the  smiles  he  gave  us 
for  our  chaff.  He  made  lots  of  money  in  her. 
She  belonged  to  a  portly  Chinaman  resembling  a 
mandarin  in  a  picture-book,  with  goggles  and 
thin  drooping  mustaches,  and  as  dignified  as  only 
a  Celestial  knows  how  to  be. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         241       , 

"The  best  of  Chinamen  as  employers  is  that  ^ 
they  have  such  gentlemanly  instincts.  Once 
they  become  convinced  that  you  are  a  straight 
man,  they  give  you  their  unbounded  confidence. 
You  simply  can't  do  wrong,  then.  And  they  are 
pretty  quick  judges  of  character,  too.  David- 
son's Chinaman  was  the  first  to  find  out  his 
worth,  on  some  theoretical  principle.  One  day 
in  his  counting-house,  before  several  white  men 
he  was  heard  to  declare :  '  Captain  Davidson  is  a 
good  man.'  And  that  settled  it.  After  that 
you  couldn't  tell  if  it  was  Davidson  who  belonged  C 
to  the  Chinaman  or  the  Chinaman  who  belonged^ 
to  Davidson.  It  was  he  who,  shortly  before  he 
died,  ordered  in  Glasgow  the  new  Sissie  for 
Davidson  to  command." 

We  walked  into  the  shade  of  the  Harbour 
Office  and  leaned  our  elbows  on  the  parapet  of 
the  quay. 

"  She  was  really  meant  to  comfort  poor  David- 
son," continued  Hollis.  "Can  you  fancy  any- 
thing more  naively  touching  than  this  old 
mandarin  spending  several  thousand  pounds  to 
console  his  white  man.^  Well,  there  she  is.  The 
old  mandarin's  sons  have  inherited  her,  andj)a- 
vidson^with  her,  and  he  commands  her;  and  what 
with  his  salary  and  the  trading  privileges  he 
makes  a  lot  of  money;  and  everything  is  as  be- 


242         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

fore;  and  Davidson  even  smiles — you  have  seen 
it?  Well,  the  smile's  the  only  thing  which  isn't 
as  before." 

"Tell  me,  HolHs,"  I  asked,  "what  do  you 
mean  by  good  in  this  connection?" 

"Well,  there  are  men  who  are  born  good  just 
as  others  are  born  witty.  What  I  mean  is  his 
nature.  No  simpler,  more  scrupulously  delicate 
soul  had  ever  lived  in  such  a — a — comfortable 
envelope.  How  we  used  to  laugh  at  Davidsoh's 
fine  scruples !  In  short,  he's  thoroughly  humane, 
and  I  don't  imagine  there  can  be  much  of  any 
other  sort  of  goodness  that  counts  on  this  earth. 
And  as  he's  that  with  a  shade  of  particular  re- 
finement, I  may  well  call  him  a  'really  good 
man.'" 

I  knew  from  old  that  Hollis  was  a  firm  be- 
liever in  the  final  values  of  shades.  And  I  said: 
"I  see" — because  I  really  did  see  Hollis's  David- 
son in  the  sympathetic  stout  man  who  had 
passed  us  a  little  while  before.  But  I  remem- 
bered that  at  the  very  moment  he  smiled  his 
placid  face  appeared  veiled  in  melancholy — a 
sort  of  spiritual  shadow.     I  went  on. 

"Who  on  earth  has  paid  him  off  for  being  so 
fine  by  spoiling  his  smile?" 

"That's  quite  a  story,  and  I  will  tell  it  to  you 
if  you  like.     Confound  it !     It's  quite  a  surpris- 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         243 

ing  one,  too.  Surprising  in  every  way,  but 
mostly  in  the  way  it  knocked  over  poor  David- 
son— and  apparently  only  because  he  is  such  a 
good  sort.  He  was  telling  me  all  about  it  only  a 
few  days  ago.  He  said  that  when  he  saw  these 
four  fellows  with  their  heads  in  a  bunch  over  the 
table,  he  at  once  didn't  like  it.  He  didn't  like  it 
at  all.  You  mustn't  suppose  that  Davidson  is  a 
soft  fool.     These  men 

"But  I  had  better  begin  at  the  beginning. 
We  must  go  back  to  the  first  time  the  old  dollars 
had  been  called  in  by  our  Government  in  ex- 
change for  a  new  issue.  Just  about  the  time 
when  I  left  these  parts  to  go  home  for  a  long  stay. 
Every  trader  in  the  islands  was  thinking  of 
getting  his  old  dollars  sent  up  here  in  time,  and 
the  demand  for  empty  French  wine  cases — you 
know  the  dozen  of  vermouth  or  claret  size — ■ 
was  something  unprecedented.  The  custom 
was  to  pack  the  dollars  in  little  bags  of  a  hun- 
dred each.  I  don't  know  how  many  bags 
each  case  would  hold.  A  good  lot.  Pretty  tidy 
sums  must  have  been  moving  afloat  just  then. 
But  let  us  get  away  from  here.     Won't  do  to 

stay  in  the  sun.     Where  could  we ^    I  know! 

let  us  go  to  those  tiffin-rooms  over  there." 

W^e  moved  over  accordingly.  Our  appear- 
ance in  the  long  empty  room  at  that  early  hour 


244    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

caused  visible  consternation  amongst  the  China 
boys.  But  HolKs  led  the  way  to  one  of  the  tables 
between  the  windows  screened  by  rattan  blinds. 
A  brilliant  half-light  trembled  on  the  ceiling,  on 
the  whitewashed  walls,  bathed  the  multitude  of 
vacant  chairs  and  tables  in  a  peculiar,  stealthy 
glow. 

"All  right.  We  will  get  something  to  eat  when 
it's  ready,"  he  said,  waving  the  anxious  China- 
man waiter  aside.  He  took  his  temples  touched 
with  grey  between  his  hands,  leaning  over  the 
table  to  bring  his  face,  his  dark,  keen  eyes,  closer 
to  mine. 

"Davidson  then  was  commanding  the  steamer 
Sissie — the  little  one  which  we  used  to  chaff  him 
about.  He  ran  her  alone,  with  only  the  Malay 
sfiiang^for  a  deck  officer.  The  nearest  approach 
to  another  white  man  on  board  of  her  was  the 
engineer,  a  JsiiH^^^s^  half-caste,  as  thin  as  a 
lath  and  quite  a  youngster  at  that.  For  all 
practical  purposes  Davidson  was  managing  that 
command  of  his  single-handed;  and  of  course 
this  was  known  in  the  port.  I  am  telling  you  of 
it  because  the  fact  had  its  influence  on  the  de- 
velopments you  shall  hear  of  presently. 

"  His  steamer,  being  so  small,  could  go  up  tiny 
creeks  and  into  shallow  bays  and  through  reefs 
and  over  sand-banks,  collecting  produce,  where 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         245 

no  other  vessel  but  a  native  craft  would  think  of 
venturing.     It  is  a  paying  game,  often.    David-  \ 
son  was  known  to  visit  in  her  places  that  no  one  \ 
else  could  find  and  that  hardly  anybody  had  1 
ever  heard  of.  ^^ — ^ 

"The  old  dollars  being  called  in,  Davidson's 
Chinaman  thought  that  the  Sissie  would  be  just 
the  thing  to  collect  them  from  small  traders  in 
the  less  frequented  parts  of  the  Archipelago.  It's 
a  good  business.  Such  cases  of  dollars  are 
dumped  aft  in  the  ship's  lazarette,  and  you  get 
good  freight  for  very  little  trouble  and  space. 

"Davidson,  too,  thought  it  was  a  good  idea; 
and  together  they  made  up  a  list  of  his  calls  on 
his  next  trip.  Then  Davidson  (he  had  naturally 
the  chart  of  his  voyages  in  his  head)  remarked 
that  on  his  way  back  he  might  look  in  at  a  cer- 
tain settlement  up  a  mere  creek,  where  a  poor  ^ 
sort  of  white  man  lived  in  a  native  village. 
Davidson  pointed  out  to  his  Chinaman  that  the 
fellow  was  certain  to  have  some  rattans  to  ship. 

"'Probably  enough  to  fill  her  forward,'  said 
Davidson.  'And  that'll  be  better  than  bringing 
her  back  with  empty  holds.  A  day  more  or  less 
doesn't  matter.' 

"This  was  sound  talk,  and  the  Chinaman 
owner  could  not  but  agree.  But  if  it  hadn't 
been  sound  it  would  have  been  just  the  same. 


246         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

Davidson  did  what  he  liked.  He  was  a  man 
^y^ai  could  do  no  wrong.  However,  this  sugges- 
tion of  his  was  not  merely  a  business  matter. 
There  was  in  it  a  touch  of  Davidsonian  kindness. 
For  you  must  know  that  the  man  could  not  have 
continued  to  live  quietly  up  that  creek  if  it  had 
yHot  been  for  Davidson's  willingness  to  call  there 
^  from  time  to  time.  And_  Davidson's  Chinaman 
knew  this  perfectly  well,  too.  So  he  only  smiled 
his  dignified,  bland  smile,  and  said:  'All  right. 
Captain.    You  do  what  you  like.' 

"I  will  explain  presently  how  this  connection 
between  Davidson  and  that  fellow  came  about. 
Now  I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  part  of  this 
affair  which  happened  here — the  preliminaries  of 
it. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  these  tiffin- 
rooms  where  we  are  sitting  now  have  been  in  ex- 
istence for  many  years.  Well,  next  day  about 
twelve  o'clock,  Davidson  dropped  in  here  to  get 
something  to  eat. 

"And  here  comes  the  only  moment  in  this 
story  where  accident — mere  accident — plays  a 
part.  If  Davidson  had  gone  home  that  day  for 
tiffin,  there  would  be  now,  after  twelve  years  or 
more,  nothing  changed  in  his  kindly,  placid 
smile. 

"But  he  came  in  here;  and  perhaps  it  was 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    247 

sitting  at  this  very  table  that  he  remarked  to  a 
friend  of  mine  .that  his  next  trip  was  to  be  a  dol- 
lar-collecting trip.  He  added,  laughing,  that  his 
wife  was  making  rather  a  fuss  about  it.  She  had 
begged  him  to  stay  ashore  and  get  somebody  else 
to  take  his  place  for  a  voyage.  She  thought  there 
was  some  danger  on  account  of  the  dollars.  He 
told  her,  he  said,  that  there  were  no  Java-sea 
pirates  nowadays  except  in  boys'  books.  He  had 
laughed  at  her  fears,  but  he  was  very  sorry,  too; 
for  when  she  took  any  notion  in  her  head  it  was 
impossible  to  argue  her  out  of  it.  She  would  be 
worrying  herself  all  the  time  he  was  away.  Well, 
he  couldn't  help  it.  There  was  no  one  ashore  fit 
to  take  his  place  for  the  trip. 

"This  friend  of  mine  and  I  went  home  together 
in  the  same  mail-boat,  and  he  mentioned  that 
conversation  one  evening  in  the  Red  Sea  while 
we  were  talking  over  the  things  and  people  we 
had  just  left,  with  more  or  less  regret. 

"I  can't  say  that  Davidson  occupied  a  very 
prominent  place.  Moral  excellence  seldom  does. 
He  was  quietly  appreciated  by  those  who  knew 
him  well;  but  his  more  obvious  distinction  con- 
sisted in  this,  that  he  was  married.  Ours,  as  you 
remember,  was  a  bachelor  crowd;  in  spirit  any- 
how, if  not  absolutely  in  fact.  There  might  have 
been  a  few  wives  in  existence,  but  if  so  they  were 


248         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

invisible,  distant,  never  alluded  to.  For  what 
would  have  been  the  good?  Davidson  alone  was 
visibly  married. 

*' Being  married  suited  him  exactly.  It  fitted 
him  so  well  that  the  wildest  of  us  did  not  resent 
the  fact  when  it  was  disclosed.  Directly  he  had 
felt  his  feet  out  here,  Davidson  sent  for  his  wife. 
She  came  out  (from  Australia)  in  the  Somerset 
under  the  care  of  Captain  Ritchie — you  know. 
Monkey-face  Ritchie — who  couldn't  praise 
enough  her  sweetness,  her  gentleness,  and  her 
charm.  She  seemed  to  be  the  heaven-born  mate 
for  Davidson.  She  found  on  arrival  a  very  pretty 
bungalow  on  the  hill,  ready  for  her  and  the  little 
girl  they  had.  Very  soon  he  got  for  her  a  two- 
wheeled  trap  and  a  Burmah  pony,  and  she  used 
to  drive  down  of  an  evening  to  pick  up  Davidson 
on  the  quay.  When  Davidson,  beaming,  got  into 
tlie  trap,  it  would  become  very  full  all  at  once. 

"We  used  to  admire  Mrs.  Davidson  from  a 
distance.  It  was  a  girlish  head  out  of  a  keep- 
sake. From  a  distance.  We  had  not  many 
opportunities  for  a  closer  view,  because  she 
did  not  care  to  give  them  to  us.  We  would 
have  been  glad  to  drop  in  at  the  Davidson 
bungalow,  but  we  were  made  to  feel  somehow 
that  we  were  not  very  welcome  there.  Not 
that  she  ever  said  anything  ungracious.     She 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    249 

never  had  much  to  say  for  herself.  I  was 
perhaps  the  one  who  saw  most  of  the  Davidsons 
at  home.  What  I  noticed  under  the  superficial 
aspect  of  vapid  sweetness  was  her  convex,  i^^ 
obstinate  forehead,  and  her  small,  red,  pretty, 
ungenerous  mouth.  But  then  I  am  an  observer 
with  strong  prejudices.  Most  of  us  were 
fetched  by  her  white,  swan- like  neck,  by  that 
drooping,  innocent  profile.  There  was  a  lot  of 
latent  devotion  to  Davidson's  wife  hereabouts, 
at  that  time,  I  can  tell  you.  But  my  idea  was 
that  she  repaid  it  by  a  profound  suspicion  of 
the  sort  of  men  we  were;  a  mistrust  which 
extended — I  fancied — to  her  very  husband  at 
times.  And  I  thought  then  she  was  jealous  of 
him  in  a  way ;  though  there  were  no  women  that 
she  could  be  jealous  about.  She  had  no  women's 
society.  It's  difficult  for  a  shipmaster's  wife 
unless  there  are  other  shipmasters'  wives  about, 
and  there  were  none  here  then.  I  know  that 
the  dock  manager's  wife  called  on  her;  but  that 
was  all.  The  fellows  here  formed  the  opinion 
that  Mrs.  Davidson  was  a  meek,  shy  little 
thing.  She  looked  it,  I  must  say.  And  this 
opinion  was  so  universal  that  the  friend  I  have 
been  telling  you  of  remembered  his  conversation 
with  Davidson  simply  because  of  the  statement 
about    Davidson's    wife.     He    even    wondered 


250    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

to  me:  *  Fancy  Mrs.  Davidson  making  a  fuss 
to  that  extent.  She  didn't  seem  to  me  the 
sort  of  woman  that  would  know  how  to  make  a 
fuss  about  anything.' 

"I  wondered,  too — ^but  not  so  much.  That 
bumpy  forehead — eh?  I  had  always  suspected 
her  of  being  silly.  And  I  observed  that  David- 
son must  have  been  vexed  by  this  display  of 
wifely  anxiety. 

"My  friend  said:  *No.  He  seemed  rather 
touched  and  distressed.  There  really  was  no 
one  he  could  ask  to  relieve  him;  mainly  because 
he  intended  to  make  a  call  in  some  God-forsaken 
creek,  to  look  up  a  fellow  of  the  name  of  Bamtz 
who  apparently  had  settled  there.'  ^"^ 

"And  again  my  friend  wondered.  *Tell  me,' 
he  cried,  '  what  connection  can  there  be  between 
Davidson  and  such  a  creature  as  Bamtz  .^' 

"I  don't  remember  now  what  answer  I  made. 
A  sufficient  one  could  have  been  given  in  two 
words:  'Davidson's  goodness.'  That  never 
boggled  at  unworthiness  if  there  was  the  slight- 
est reason  for  compassion.  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  that  Davidson  had  no  discrimination  at 
all.  Bamtz  could  not  have  imposed  on  him. 
Moreover,  everybody  knew  what  Bamtz  was. 
He  was  a  loafer  with  a  beard.  When  I  think 
of  Bamtz,  the  first  thing  I  see  is  that  long  black 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    251 

beard  and  a  lot  of  propitiatory  wrinkles  at  the 
corners  of  two  little  eyes.  There  was  no  such 
beard  from  here  to  Polynesia,  where  a  beard  is 
a  valuable  property  in  itself.  Bamtz's  beard 
was  valuable  to  him  in  another  way.  You 
know  how  impressed  Orientals  are  by  a  fine 
beard.  Years  and  years  ago,  I  remember,  the 
grave  Abdullah,  the  great  trader  of  Sambir,^ 
unable  to  repress  signs  of  astonishment  and 
admiration  at  the  first  sight  of  that  imposing 
beard.  And  it's  very  well  known  that  Bamtz 
lived  on  Abdullah  off  and  on  for  several  years. 
It  was  a  unique  beard,  and  so  was  the  bearer  of 
the  same.  A  unique  loafer.  He  made  a  fi^e 
art  of  it,  or  rather  a  sort  of  craft  and  mystery. 
One  can  understand  a  fellow  living  by  cadging 
and  small  swindles  in  towns,  in  large  communi- 
ties of  people;  but  Bamtz  managed  to  do  that 
trick  in  the  wilderness,  to  loaf  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  virgin  forest. 

"He  understood  how  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  the  natives.  He  would  arrive  in  some 
settlement  up  a  river,  make  a  present  of  a  cheap 
carbine  or  a  pair  of  shoddy  binoculars,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  to  the  Rajah,  or  the  head- 
man, or  the  principal  trader;  and  on  the 
strength  of  that  gift,  ask  for  a  house,  posing 
mysteriously    as    a    very    special    trader.     He 


252    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

would  spin  them  no  end  of  yarns,  live  on  the  fat 
of  the  land  for  a  while,  and  then  do  some  mean 
swindle  or  other — or  else  they  would  get  tired  of 
him  and  ask  him  to  quit.  And  he  would  go  off 
meekly  with  an  air  of  injured  innocence.  Funny 
life.  Yet,  he  never  got  hurt  somehow.  I've 
heard  of  the  Rajah  of  Dongala  giving  him  fifty 
dollars'  worth  of  trade  goods  and  paying  his 
passage  in  a  prau  only  to  get  rid  of  him.  Fact. 
And  observe  that  nothing  prevented  the  old 
fellow  having  Bamtz's  throat  cut  and  the  carcase 
thrown  into  deep  water  outside  the  reefs;  for 
who  on  earth  would  have  inquired  after  Bamtz.^^ 

"He  had  been  known  to  loaf  up  and  down  the 
wilderness  as  far  north  as  the  Gulf  of  Tonkin. 
Neither  did  he  disdain  a  spell  of  civilisation 
from  time  to  time.  And  it  was  while  loafing 
and  cadging  in  Saigon,  bearded  and  dignified 
(he  gave  himself  out  there  as  a  bookkeeper), 
that  he  came  across  Laughing  Anne. 

"The  less  said  of  her  early  history  the  better, 
but  something  must  be  said.  We  may  safely 
suppose  there  was  very  little  heart  left  in  her 
famous  laugh  when  Bamtz  spoke  first  to  her  in 
some  low  cafe.  She  was  stranded  in  Saigon 
with  precious  little  money  and  in  great  trouble 
about  a  kid  she  had,  a  boy  of  five  or  six. 

"A  fellow  I  just  remember,  whom  they  called 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    253 

Pearler  Harry,  brought  her  out  first  into  these 
parts — from  AustraHa,  I  beHeve.  He  brought 
her  out  and  then  dropped  her,  and  she  remained 
knocking  about  here  and  there,  known  to  most 
of  us  by  sight,  at  any  rate.  Everybody  in  the 
Archipelago  had  heard  of  Laughing  Anne.  She 
had  really  a  pleasant  silvery  laugh  always  at 
her  disposal,  so  to  speak,  but  it  wasn't  enough 
apparently  to  make  her  fortune.  The  poor 
creature  was  ready  to  stick  to  any  half-decent 
man  if  he  would  only  let  her,  but  she  always  got 
dropped,  as  it  might  have  been  expected. 

"She  had  been  left  in  Saigon  by  the  skipper 
of  a  German  ship  with  whom  she  had  been  going 
up  and  down  the  China  coast  as  far  as  Vladi- 
vostok for  near  upon  two  years.  The  German 
said  to  her:  *This  is  all  over,  mein  Taubchen. 
I  am  going  home  now  to  get  married  to  the  girl 
I  got  engaged  to  before  coming  out  here.'  And 
Anne  said:  'All  right,  I'm  ready  to  go.  We  part 
friends,  don't  we?' 

"She  was  always  anxious  to  part  friends.  The 
German  told  her  that  of  course  they  were  part- 
ing friends.  He  looked  rather  glum  at  the 
moment  of  parting.  She  laughed  and  went 
ashore. 

"But  it  was  no  laughing  matter  for  her.  She 
had  some  notion  that  this  would  be  her  last 


254    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

chance.  What  frightened  her  most  was  the 
future  of  her  child.  She  had  left  her  boy  in 
Saigon  before  going  off  with  the  German,  in  the 
care  of  an  elderly  French  couple.  The  husband 
was  a  doorkeeper  in  some  Government  office, 
but  his  time  was  up,  and  they  were  returning 
to  France.  She  had  to  take  the  boy  back  from 
them;  and  after  she  had  got  him  back,  she  did 
not  like  to  part  with  him  any  more. 

"That  was  the  situation  when  she  and  Bamtz 
got  acquainted  casually.  She  could  not  have 
had  any  illusions  about  that  fellow.  To  pick 
up  with  Bamtz  was  coming  down  pretty  low 
in  the  world,  even  from  a  material  point  of  view. 
She  had  always  been  decent,  in  her  way;  whereas 
Bamtz  was,  not  to  mince  words,  an  abject  sort 
of  creature.  On  the  other  hand,  that  bearded 
loafer,  who  looked  much  more  like  a  pirate 
than  a  bookkeeper,  was  not  a  brute.  He  was 
gentle — rather — even  in  his  cups.  And  then 
despair,  like  misfortune,  makes  us  acquainted 
^with  strange  bed-fellows.  For  she  may  well 
have  despaired.  She  was  no  longer  young — 
you  know. 

"On  the  man's  side  this  conjunction  is  more 
difficult  to  explain,  perhaps.  One  thing,  how- 
ever, must  be  said  of  Bamtz;  he  had  always 
kept   clear   of   native   women.     As   one   can't 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         ^55 

suspect  him  of  moral  delicacy,  I  surmise  that 
it  must  have  been  from  prudence.  And  he, 
too,  was  no  longer  young.  There  were  many 
white  hairs  in  his  valuable  black  beard  by  then. 
He  may  have  simply  longed  for  some  kind  of  w^ 
companionship  in  his  queer,  degraded  existence. 
Whatever  their  motives,  they  vanished  from 
Saigon  together.  And  of  course  nobody  cared 
what  had  become  of  them. 

"Six  months  later  Davidson  came  into  the 
Mirrah  Settlement.  It  was  the  very  first  time 
he  had  been  up  that  creek,  where  no  European 
vessel  had  ever  been  seen  before.  A  Javanese 
passenger  he  had  on  board  offered  him  fifty 
dollars  to  call  in  there — it  must  have  been  some 
very  particular  business — and  Davidson  con- 
sented to  try.  Fifty  dollars,  he  told  me,  were 
neither  here  nor  there;  but  he  was  curious  to  see 
the  place,  and  the  little  Sissie  could  go  anywhere 
where  there  was  water  enough  to  float  a  soup- 
plate. 

"Davidson  landed  his  Javanese  plutocrat, 
and,  as  he  had  to  wait  a  couple  of  hours  for  the 
tide,  he  went  ashore  himself  to  stretch  his  legs. 

"It  was  a  small  settlement.  Some  sixty 
houses,  most  of  them  built  on  piles  over  the 
river,  the  rest  scattered  in  the  long  grass;  the 
usual  pathway  at  the  back;  the  forest  hemming 


256         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

in  the  clearing  and  smothering  what  there  might 
have  been  of  air  into  a  dead,  hot  stagnation. 

"All  the  population  was  on  the  river-bank 
staring  silently,  as  Malays  will  do,  at  the  Sissie 
anchored  in  the  stream.  She  w^as  almost  as 
wonderful  to  them  as  an  angel's  visit.  Many  of 
the  old  people  had  only  heard  vaguely  of  fire- 
ships,  and  not  many  of  the  younger  genera- 
tion had  seen  one.  On  the  back  path  Davidson 
strolled  in  perfect  solitude.  But  he  became 
aware  of  a  bad_smell  and  concluded  he  would  go 
no  farther. 

"While  he  stood  wiping  his  forehead,  he 
heard  from  somewhere  the  exclamation:  *My 
God!  It's  Davy!' 

"Davidson's  lower  jaw,  as  he  expressed  it, 
came  unhooked  at  the  crying  of  this  excited 
voice.  Davy  was  the  name  used  by  the  asso- 
ciates of  his  young  days;  he  hadn't  heard  it 
for  many  years.  He  stared  about  with  his 
mouth  open  and  saw  a  white  w^oman  issue  from 
the  long  grass  in  which  a  small  hut  stood  buried 
nearly  up  to  the  roof. 

"Try  to  imagine  the  shock:  in  that  wild 
place  that  you  couldn't  find  on  a  map,  and 
more  squalid  than  the  most  poverty-stricken 
Malay  settlement  had  a  right  to  be,  this  Euro- 
pean woman  coming  swishing  out  of  the  long 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         257 

grass  in  a  fanciful  teagown  thing,  dingy  pink 
satin,  with  a  long  train  and  frayed  lace  trim- 
mings; her  eyes  like  black  coals  in  a  pasty- 
white  face.  Davidson  thought  that  he  was 
asleep,  that  he  was  delirious.  From  the  offen- 
sive village  mudhole  (it  was  what  Davidson  had 
sniffed  just  before)  a  couple  of  filthy  buffaloes 
uprose  with  loud  snorts  and  lumbered  off  crash- 
ing through  the  bushes,  panic-struck  by  this 
apparition. 

"The  woman  came  forward,  her  arms  ex- 
tended, and  laid  her  hands  on  Davidson's 
shoulders,  exclaiming : '  Why !  You  have  hardly 
changed  at  all.  The  same  good  Davy.'  And 
she  laughed  a  little  wildly. 

"This  sound  was  to  Davidson  like  a  galvanic 
shock  to  a  corpse.  He  started  in  every  muscle. 
*  Laughing  Anne,'  he  said  in  an  awe-struck 
voice. 

"  'All  that's  left  of  her,  Davy.  All  that's  left 
of  her.' 

"Davidson  looked  up  at  the  sky:  but  there 
was  to  be  seen  no  balloon  from  which  she  could 
have  fallen  on  that  spot.  When  he  brought  his 
distracted  gaze  down,  it  rested  on  a  child  hold- 
ing on  with  a  brown  little  paw  to  the  pink  satin 
gown.  He  ha"d  run  out  of  the  grass  after  her. 
Had  Davidson  seen  a  real  hobgoblin  his  eyes 


258         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

could  not  have  bulged  more  than  at  this  small 
boy  in  a  dirty  white  blouse  and  ragged  knickers. 
He  had  a  round  head  of  tight  chestnut  curls, 
very  sunburnt  legs,  a  freckled  face,  and  merry 
eyes.  Admonished  by  his  mother  to  greet  the 
gentleman,  he  finished  off  Davidson  by  addres- 
sing him  in  French. 

'''Bonjqur.' 

"Davidson,  overcome,  looked  up  at  the  wo- 
man in  silence.  She  sent  the  child  back  to  the 
hut,  and  w^hen  he  had  disappeared  in  the  grass? 
she  turned  to  Davidson,  tried  to  speak,  but 
after  getting  out  the  words,  'That's  my  Tony,' 
burst  into  a  long  fit  of  crying.  She  had  to 
lean  on  Davidson's  shoulder.  He,  distressed 
in  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  stood  rooted  to  the 
spot  where  she  had  come  upon  him. 

"What  a  meeting — eh.^  Bamtz  had  sent  her 
out  to  see  what  white  man  it  was  who  had 
landed.  And  she  had  recognised  him  from  that 
time  when  Davidson,  who  had  been  pearling 
himself  in  his  youth,  had  been  associating  with 
Harry  the  Pearler  and  others,  the  quietest  of  a 
rather  rowdy  set. 

"Before  Davidson  retraced  his  steps  to  go  on 
board  the  steamer,  he  had  heard  much  of  Laugh- 
ing Anne's  story,  and  had  even  had  an  inter- 
view, on  the  path,  with  Bamtz  himself.     She 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    259 

ran  back  to  the  hut  to  fetch  him,  and  he  came 
out  lounging,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
with  the  detached,  casual  manner  under  which 
he  concealed  his  propensity  to  cringe>  Ya-a- 
as-as.  He  thought  he  would  settle  here  per- 
manently— with  her.  This  with  a  nod  at 
Laughing  Anne,  who  stood  by,  a  haggard,  tragi- 
cally anxious  figure,  her  black  hair  hanging 
over  her  shoulders. 

"  *No  more  paint  and  dyes  for  me,  Davy,'  she 
struck  in,  *if  only  you  will  do  what  he  wants  you 
to  do.  You  know  that  I  was  always  ready  to 
stand  by  my  men — if  they  had  only  let  me.' 

"Davidson  had  no  doubt  of  her  earnestness. 
It  was  of  Bamtz's  good  faith  that  he  was  not  at 
all  sure.  Bamtz  wanted  Davidson  to  promise 
to  call  at  Mirrah  more  or  less  regularly.  He 
thought  he  saw  an  opening  to  do  business  with 
rattans  there,  if  only  he  could  depend  on  some 
craft  to  bring  out  trading  goods  and  take  away 
his  produce. 

"'I  have  a  few  dollars  to  make  a  start  on. 
The  people  are  all  right.' 

"  He  had  come  there,  where  he  was  not  known, 
in  a  native  prau,  and  had  managed,  with  his 
sedate  manner  and  the  exactly  right  kind  of 
yarn  he  knew  how  to  tell  to  the  natives,  to  in- 
gratiate himself  with  the  chief  man. 


260         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"'The  Orang  Kay  a  has  given  me  that  empty 
house  there  to  live  in  as  long  as  I  will  stay/ 
added  Bamtz. 

'"Do  it,  Davy,'  cried  the  woman  suddenly. 
'Think  of  that  poor  kid.' 

"'Seen  him?  'Cute  little  customer,'  said  the 
reformed  loafer  in  such  a  tone  of  interest  as  to 
surprise  Davidson  into  a  kindly  glance. 

"'I  certainly  can  do  it,'  he  declared.  He 
thought  of  at  first  making  some  stipulation  as 
to  Bamtz  behaving  decently  to  the  woman,  but 
his  exaggerated  delicacy  and  also  the  conviction 
that  such  a  fellow's  promises  were  w^orth  noth- 
ing restrained  him.  Anne  went  a  little  distance 
down  the  path  with  him  talking  anxiously. 

"'It's  for  the  kid.  How  could  I  have  kept 
him  with  me  if  I  had  to  knock  about  in  towns  .^ 
Here  he  will  never  know  that  his  mother  was  a 
painted  woman.  And  this  Bamtz  likes  him. 
He's  real  fond  of  him.  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
thank  God  for  that.' 

{"Davidson  shuddered  at  any  human  crea- 
ture being  brought  so  low  as  to  have  to  thank 
God  for  the  favours  or  affection  of  a  Bamtz. 

"  'And  do  you  think  that  you  can  make  out  to 
live  here.^ '  he  asked  gently. 

"  'Can't  I.^     You  know  I  have  always  stuck  to 
.  ^y/men  through  thick  and  thin  till  they  had  enough 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    261 

of  me.  And  now  look  at  me!  But  inside  I  am 
as  I  always  was.  I  have  acted  on  the  square  to 
them  all  one  after  another.  Only  they  do  get 
tired  somehow.  Oh,  Davy!  Harry  ought  not 
to  have  cast  me  off.  It  was  he  that  led  me 
astray. 

"Davidson  mentioned  to  her  that  Harry  the 
Pearler  had  been  dead  now  for  some  years. 
Perhaps  she  had  heard? 

"She  made  a  sign  that  she  had  heard;  and 
walked  by  the  side  of  Davidson  in  silence  nearly 
to  the  bank.  Then  she  told  him  that  her  meet- 
ing with  him  had  brought  back  the  old  times  to 
her  mind.  She  had  not  cried  for  years.  She 
was  not  a  crying  woman  either.  It  was  hearing 
herself  called  Laughing  Anne  that  had  started 
her  sobbing  like  a  fool.  Harry  was  the  only 
man  she  had  loved.     The  others 

"  She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  But  she  prided 
herself  on  her  loyalty  to  the  successive  partners 
of  her  dismal  adventures.  She  had  never 
played  any  tricks  in  her  life.  She  was  a  pal 
worth  having.  But  men  did  get  tired.  They 
did  not  understand  women.  She  supposed  it 
had  to  be. 

"Davidson  was  attempting  a  veiled  warning 
as  to  Bamtz,  but  she  interrupted  him.  She 
knew  what  men  were.     She  knew  what  this 


262    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

man  was  like.  But  he  had  taken  wonderfully 
to  the  kid.  And  Davidson  desisted  willingly, 
saying  to  himself  that  surely  poor  Laughing 
Anne  could  have  no  illusions  by  this  time.  She 
wrung  his  hand  hard  at  parting. 

"'It's  for  the  kid,  Davy— it's  for  the  kid. 
Isn't  he  a  bright  little  chap? ' 


II 


"All  this  happened  about  two  years  before  the 
day  when  Davidson,  sitting  in  this  very  room, 
talked  to  my  friend.  You  will  see  presently 
how  this  room  can  get  full.  Every  seat'll  be 
occupied,  and  as  you  notice,  the  tables  are  set 
close,  so  that  the  backs  of  the  chairs  are  almost 
touching.  There  is  also  a  good  deal  of  noisy 
talk  here  about  one  o'clock. 

"I  don't  suppose  Davidson  was  talking  very 
loudly;  but  very  likely  he  had  to  raise  his  voice 
across  the  table  to  my  friend.  And  here  ac- 
cident, mere  accident,  put  in  its  work  by  pro- 
viding a  pair  of  fine  ears  close  behind  Davidson's 
chair.  It  was  ten  to  one  against  the  owner  of 
the  same  having  enough  change  in  his  pockets 
to  get  his  tiffin  here.  But  he  had.  Most  likely 
had  rooked  somebody  of  a  few  dollars  at  cards 
overnight.  JHe  .was  a  bright  creature  of  the 
name  of  /Fectorj  a  spare,  short,  jumpy  fellow 
with  a  red  face  and  muddy  eyes.  He  described 
himself  as  a  journalist  as  certain  kind  of  women 

263 


A 


264         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

give  themselves  out  as  actresses  in  the  dock 
of  a  pohce-court. 

"He  used  to  introduce  himself  to  strangers  as 
a  man  with  a  mission  to  track  out  abuses  and 
fight  them  whenever  found.  He  would  also 
hint  that  he  was  a  martyr.  And  it's  a  fact 
that  he  had  been  kicked,  horsewhipped,  im- 
risoned,  and  hounded  with  ignominy  out  of 
pretty  well  every  place  between  Ceylon  and 
Shanghai  for  a  proJessioiiaLhlackmailer. 

"I  suppose,  in  that  trade,  you've  got  to  have 
active  wits  and  sharp  ears.  It's  not  likely  that 
he  overheard  every  word  Davidson  said  about 
his  dollar-collecting  trip,  but  he  heard  enough 
to  set  his  wits  at  work. 

"He  let  Davidson  go  out,  and  then  hastened 
away  down  to  the  nativ£_slunis  to  a  sort  of 
lodging-house  kept  in  partnership  by  the  usual 
sort  of  Portuguese  and  a  very  disreputjible 
CEmaman.  Macao  Hotel,  it  was  called,  but 
it  was  mostly  a  gambling  den  that  one  used  to 
warn  fellows  against.     Perhaps  you  remember.'^ 

"There,  the  evening  before,  Fector  had  met  a 
precious  couple,  a  partnership  even  more  queer 
than  the  Portuguese  and  the  Chinaman.  One  of 
the  two  was  Niclaus — you  know.  Why!  the 
fellow  with  a  Tartar  mustache  and  a  yellow 
/complexion   like   a   Mongolian,    only   that  his 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    265 

eyes  were  set  straight  and  his  face  was  not  so 
flat.     One  couldn't  tell  what  bYeed)he  was.     A 
nondescript  beggar.     From  a  certain  angle  you 
would  think  a  very  bilious  white  man.     And  I 
daresay  he  was.     He  owned  a  Malay  prau  and 
called  himself  The  Nakhoda,  as  one  would  say: 
The  Captain.     xAha!     Now  you  remember.    He  \\ 
couldn't,  apparently,  speak  any  other  European   \ 
language  than  English,  but  he  flew  the 4)ut^Ji 
flag  on  his  prau. 

*'The  other  was  the  Frenchman  without 
hands.  Yes.  The  very  same  we  used  to 
know  in  '79  in  Sydney,  keeping  a  little  tobacco 
shop  at  the  lower  end  of  George  Street.  You 
remember  the  huge  carcase  hunched  up  behind 
the  counter,  the  big  white  face  and  the  long 
black  hair  brushed  back  off  a  high  forehead 
like  a  bard's.  He  was  always  trying  to  roll 
cigarettes  on  his  knee  with  his  stumps,  telling 
endless  yarns  of  Polynesia  and  whining  and 
cursing  in  turn  about  'mon  malheur.'  His  hands 
had  been  blown  away  by  a  dynamite  cartridge 
while  fishing  in  some  lagoon.  This  accident,  I 
believe,  had  made  him  more  wicked  than  before, 
which  is  saying  a  good  deal. 

"He  was  always  talking  about  *  resuming  his 
activities'  some  day,  whatever  they  were,  if  he 
could  only  get  an  intelligent  companion.     It 


266         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

was  evident  that  the  little  shop  was  no  field  for 
his  activities,  and  the  sickly  woman  with  her  face 
tied  up,  who  used  to  look  in  sometimes  through 
the  back  door,  was  no  companion  for  him. 

"And,  true  enough,  he  vanished  from  Sydney 
before  long,  after  some  trouble  with  the  Excise 
fellows  about  his  stock.  Goods  stolen  out  of  a 
warehouse  or  something  similar.  He  left  the 
woman  behind,  but  he  must  have  secured  some 
sort  of  companion — he  could  not  have  shifted 
for  himself;  but  whom  he  went  away  with,  and 
where,  and  what  other  companions  he  might 
have  picked  up  afterward,  it  is  impossible  to 
make  the  remotest  guess  about. 

"Why  exactly  he  came  this  way  I  can't  tell. 
Toward  the  end  of  my  time  here  we  began  to 
hear  talk  of  a  maimed  Frenchman  who  had  been 
seen  here  and  there.  But  no  one  knew  then 
that  he  had  foregathered  with  Niclaus  and 
lived  in  hisprau.  I  daresay  he  put  Niclaus 
up  to  a  thing  or  two.  Anyhow,  it  was  a  part- 
nership. Niclaus  was  somewhat  afraid  of  the 
Frenchman  on  account  of  his  tempers,  which 
were  awful.  He  looked  then  like  a  devil;  but 
a  man  without  hands,  unable  to  load  or  handle 
a  weapon,  can  at  best  go  for  one  only  with  his 
teeth.  From  that  danger  Niclaus  felt  certain 
he  could  always  defend  himself. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    267 

"The  couple  were  alone  together  loafing  in 
the  common-room  of  that  infamous  hotel  when 
Fector  turned  up.  After  some  beating  about 
the  bush,  for  he  was  doubtful  how  far  he  could 
trust  these  two,  he  repeated  what  he  had  over- 
heard in  the  tifiin-rooms. 

"His  tale  did  not  have  much  success  till  he 
came  to  mention  the  creek  and  Bamtz's  name. 
Niclaus,  sailing  about  like  a  native  in  a  prau, 
was,  in  his  own  words,  'familiar  with  the  local- 
ity.' The  huge  Frenchman,  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  with  his  stumps  in  the  pockets 
of  his  jacket,  stopped  short  in  surprise.  '  Com- 
ment ?     Bamtz  I     Bamtz ! ' 

"He  had  run  across  him  several  times  in  his 
life.  He  exclaimed:  ^ Bamtz!  Mais  je  ne  con- 
nais  que  ca!^  And  he  applied  such  a  contemp- 
tuously indecent  epithet  to  Bamtz  that  when, 
later,  he  alluded  to  him  as  ^une  chiffe'  (a  mere 
rag)  it  sounded  quite  complimentary.  'We 
can  do  with  him  what  we  like,'  he  asserted  con- 
fidently.    'Oh,  yes.     Certainly  we  must  hasten 

to   pay    a   visit    to    that '    (another   awful 

descriptive  epithet  quite  unfit  for  repetition). 
'Devil  take  me  if  we  don't  pull  off  a  coup  that 
will  set  us  all  up  for  a  long  time.' 

"He  saw  all  that  lot  of  dollars  melted  into 
bars  and  disposed  of  somewhere  on  the  China 


268         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

coast.  Of  the  escape  after  the  coup  he  never 
doubted.  There  was  Niclaus's  prau  to  manage 
that  in. 

"In  his  enthusiasm  he  pulled  his  stumps  out 
of  his  pockets  and  waved  them  about.  Then, 
catching  sight  of  them,  as  it  were,  he  held  them 
in  front  of  his  eyes,  cursing  and  blaspheming  and 
bewailing  his  misfortune  and  his  helplessness, 
till  Niclaus  quieted  him  down. 

"But  it  was  his  mind  that  planned  out  the 
affair  and  it  was  his  spirit  which  carried  the 
other  two  on.  Neither  of  them  was  of  the  bold 
buccaneer  type;  and  Fector,  especially,  had 
never  in  his  adventurous  life  used  other  wea- 
pons than  slander  and  lies. 

"That  very  evening  they  departed  on  a  visit 
to  Bamtz  in  Niclaus's  prau,  which  had  been 
lying,  emptied  of  her  cargo  of  cocoanuts,  for  a 
day  or  two  under  the  canal  bridge.  They  must 
have  crossed  the  bows  of  the  anchored  Sissie, 
and  no  doubt  looked  at  her  with  interest  as  the 
scene  of  their  future  exploit,  the  great  haul, 
le  grand  coup! 

"Davidson's  wife,  to  his  great  surprise,  sulked 
with  him  for  several  days  before  he  left.  I 
don't  know  whether  it  occurred  to  him  that,  for 
all  her  angelic  profile,  she  was  a  very  stupidly 
obstinate  girl.     She  didn't  like  the  tropics.     He 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    269 

had  brought  her  out  there,  where  she  had  no 
friends,  and  now,  she  said,  he  was  becoming 
inconsiderate.  She  had  a  presentiment  of  some 
misfortune,  and  notwithstanding  Davidson's 
painstaking  explanations,  she  could  not  see 
why  her  presentiments  were  to  be  disregarded. 
On  the  very  last  evening  before  Davidson  went 
away  she  asked  him  in  a  suspicious  manner : 

"  *  Why  is  it  that  you  are  so  anxious  to  go  this 
time.?' 

"'I  am  not  anxious,'  protested  the  good 
Davidson.  *  I  simply  can't  help  myself.  There's 
no  one  else  to  go  in  my  place.' 

"'Oh!  There's  no  one,'  she  said,  turning 
away  slowly. 

"She  was  so  distant  with  him  that  evening 
that  Davidson  from  a  sense  of  delicacy  made  up 
his  mind  to  say  good-bye  to  her  at  once  and  go 
and  sleep  on  board.  He  felt  very  miserable 
and,  strangely  enough,  more  on  his  own  account 
than  on  account  of  his  wife.  She  seemed  to 
him  much  more  offended  than  grieved. 

"Three  weeks  later,  having  collected  a  good 
many  cases  of  old  dollars  (they  were  stowed  aft 
in  the  lazarette  with  an  iron  bar  and  a  padlock 
securing  the  hatch  under  his  cabin-table),  yes, 
with  a  bigger  lot  than  he  had  expected  to  col- 
lect, he  found  himself  homeward  bound  and 


270         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

off  the  entrance  of  the  creek  where  Bamtz  lived 
and  even,  in  a  sense,  flourished. 

"It  was  so  late  in  the  day  that  Davidson 
actually  hesitated  whether  he  should  not  pass 
by  this  time.  He  had  no  regard  for  Bamtz,  who 
was  a  degraded  but  not  a  really  unhappy  man. 
His  pity  for  Laughing  Anne  was  no  more  than 
her  case  deserved.  But  his  goodness  was  of  a 
particularly  jelicate  sort.  He  realized  how 
these  people  were  dependent  on  him,  and  how 
they  would  feel  their  dependence  (if  he  failed 
to  turn  up)  through  a  long  month  of  anxious 
waiting.  Prompted  by  his  sensitive  humanity, 
Davidson,  in  the  gathering  dusk,  turned  the 
Sissie's  head  toward  the  hardly  discernible 
coast,  and  navigated  her  safely  through  a 
maze  of  shallow  patches.  But  by  the  time  he  got 
to  the  mouth  of  the  creek  the  night  had  come. 

"The  narrow  waterway  lay  like  a  black  cut- 
ting through  the  forest.  And  as  there  were 
always  grounded  snags  in  the  channel  which 
it  would  be  impossible  to  make  out,  Davidson 
very  prudently  turned  the  Sissie  round,  and 
with  only  enough  steam  on  the  boilers  to  give 
her  a  touch  ahead  if  necessary,  let  her  drift 
up  stern  first  with  the  tide,  silent  and  invisible 
in  the  impenetrable  darkness  and  in  the  dumb 
stillness. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    271 

"It  was  a  long  job,  and  when  at  the  end  of 
two  hours  Davidson  thought  he  must  be  up  to 
the  clearing,  the  settlement  slept  already,  the 
whole  land  of  forests  and  rivers  was  asleep. 

"Davidson,  seeing  a  solitary  light  in  the 
massed  darkness  of  the  shore,  knew  that  it  was 
burning  in  Bamtz's  house.  This  was  unex- 
pected at  this  time  of  the  night,  but  convenient 
as  a  guide.  By  a  turn  of  the  screw  and  a  touch 
of  the  helm  he  sheered  the  Sissie  alongside 
Bamtz's  wharf — a  miserable  structure  of  a  dozen 
piles  and  a  few  planks  of  which  the  ex-vagabond 
was  very  proud.  A  couple  of  Kalashes  jumped 
down  on  it,  took  a  turn  with  the  ropes  thrown 
to  them  round  the  posts,  and  the  Sissie  came  to 
rest  without  a  single  loud  word  or  the  slightest 
noise.  And  just  in  time  too,  for  the  tide  turned 
even  before  she  was  properly  moored. 

"Davidson  had  something  to  eat,  and  then, 
coming  on  deck  for  a  last  look  round,  noticed 
that  the  light  was  still  burning  in  the  house. 

"This  was  very  unusual,  but  since  they  were 
awake  so  late,  Davidson  thought  that  he  would 
go  up  to  say  that  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  off  and  to 
ask  that  what  rattans  there  were  in  store  should 
be  sent  on  board  with  the  first  sign  of  dawn. 

"He  stepped  carefully  over  the  shaky  planks, 
not  being  anxious  to  get  a  sprained  ankle,  and 


272    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLAES 

picked  his  way  across  the  waste  ground  to  the 
foot  of  the  house  ladder.  The  house  was  but  a 
glorified  hut  on  piles,  unfenced  and  lonely. 

"Like  many  a  stout  man,  Davidson  is  very 
lightfooted.  He  climbed  the  seven  steps  or  so, 
stepped  across  the  bamboo  platform  quietly, 
but  what  he  saw  through  the  doorway  stopped 
him  short. 

"Four  men  were  sitting  by  the  light  of  a 
solitary  candle.  There  was  a  bottle,  a  jug,  and 
glasses  on  the  table,  but  they  were  not  engaged 
in  drinking.  Two  packs  of  cards  were  lying 
there  too,  but  they  were  not  preparing  to  play. 
They  were  talking  together  in  whispers,  and 
remained  quite  unaware  of  him.  He  himself 
was  too  astonished  to  make  a  sound  for  some 
time.  The  world  was  still,  except  for  the  sibila- 
tion  of  the  whispering  heads  bunched  together 
over  the  table. 

"And  Davidson,  as  I  have  quoted  him  to  you 
before,  didn't  like  it.     He  didn't  like  it  at  all. 

"The  situation  ended  with  a  scream  proceed- 
ing from  the  dark,  interior  part  of  the  room.  '  O 
Davy!  you've  given  me  a  turn.' 

"Davidson  made  out  beyond  the  table  Anne's 
very  pale  face.  She  laughed  a  little  hysteric- 
ally, out  of  the  deep  shadows  between  the  gloomy 
mat  walls.     'Ha!  ha!  ha!' 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    273 

"The  four  heads  sprang  apart  at  the  first 
sound,  and  four  pairs  of  eyes  became  fixed 
stonily  on  Davidson.  The  woman  came  for- 
ward, having  Kttle  more  on  her  than  a  loose 
chintz  wrapper  and  straw  slippers  on  her  bare 
feet.  Her  head  was  tied  up  Malay  fashion  in  a 
red  handkerchief,  with  a  mass  of  loose  hair 
hanging  under  it  behind.  Her  professional, 
gay,  European  feathers  had  literally  dropped  off 
her  in  the  course  of  these  two  years,  but  a  long 
necklace  of  amber  beads  hung  round  her  un- 
covered neck.  It  was  the  only  ornament  she 
had  left;  Bamtz  had  sold  all  her  poor-enough 
trinkets  during  the  flight  from  Saigon — when 
their  association  began. 

"She  came  forward,  past  the  table  into  the 
light,  with  her  usual  groping  gesture  of  ex- 
tended arms,  as  though  her  soul,  poor  thing!  had 
gone  blind  long  ago,  her  white  cheeks  hollow, 
her  eyes  darkly  wild,  distracted,  as  Davidson 
thought.  She  came  on  swiftly,  grabbed  him  by 
the  arm,  dragged  him  in.  *It's  heaven  itself 
that  sends  you  to-night.  My  Tony's  so  bad — 
come  and  see  him.     Come  along — do!' 

"Davidson  submitted.  The  only  one  of  the 
men  to  move  was  Bamtz,  who  made  as  if  to  get 
up  but  dropped  back  in  his  chair  again.  David- 
son  in  passing  heard  him  mutter  confusedly 


274         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

something  that  sounded  like  'poor  little  beg- 
gar.' 

"The  child,  lying  very  flushed  in  a  miserable 
cot  knocked  up  out  of  gin-cases,  stared  at  David- 
son with  wide,  drowsy  eyes.  It  was  a  bad  bout 
of  fever  clearly.  But  while  Davidson  was 
promising  to  go  on  board  and  fetch  some  medi- 
cines, and  generally  trying  to  say  reassuring 
things,  he  could  not  help  being  struck  by  the 
extraordinary  manner  of  the  woman  standing 
by  his  side.  Gazing  with  despairing  expression 
down  at  the  cot,  she  would  suddenly  throw  a 
quick,  startled  glance  at  Davidson  and  then 
toward  the  other  room. 

**'Yes,  my  poor  girl,'  he  whispered,  interpret- 
ing her  distraction  in  his  own  way,  though  he  had 
nothing  precise  in  his  mind.  'I'm  afraid  this 
bodes  no  good  to  you.     How  is  it  they  are  here? ' 

"She  seized  his  forearm  and  breathed  out 
forcibly :  *  No  good  to  me !  Oh,  no !  But  what 
about  you!  They  are  after  the  dollars  you 
t  '^have  on  board.' 

"Davidson  let  out  an  astonished  *How  do 
they  know  there  are  any  dollars? ' 

"She  clapped  her  hands  lightly,  in  distress. 
*So  it's  true!  You  have  them  on  board?  Then 
look  out  for  yourself.' 

"They  stood  gazing  down  at  the  boy  in  the 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    275 

cot,  aware  that  they  might  be  observed  from 
the  other  room. 

"*We  must  get  him  to  perspire  as  soon  as 
possible,'  said  Davidson  in  his  ordinary  voice. 
'You'll  have  to  give  him  hot  drink  of  some  kind. 
I  will  go  on  board  and  bring  you  a  spirit-kettle 
amongst  other  things.'  And  he  added  under  his 
breath:  'Do  they  actually  mean  murder.^' 

"She  made  no  sign,  she  had  returned  to  her 
desolate  contemplation  of  the  boy.  Davidson 
thought  she  nad  not  heard  him  even,  when  with 
an  unchanged  expression  she  spoke  under  her 
breath. 

"'The  Frenchman  would,  in  a  minute.  The 
others  shirk  it — unless  you  resist.  He's  a 
devil.  He  keeps  them  going.  Without  him 
they  would  have  done  nothing  but  talk.  I've 
got  chummy  with  him.  What  can  you  do  when 
you  are  with  a  man  like  the  fellow  I  am  with 
now.  Bamtz  is  terrified  of  them,  and  they 
know  it.  He's  in  it  from  funk.  Oh,  Davy! 
take  your  ship  away — quick ! ' 

"'Too  late,'  said  Davidson.  'She's  on  the 
mud  already.' 

"'If  the  kid  hadn't  been  in  this  state  I  would 
have  run  off  with  him — to  you — into  the  woods 
— anywhere.  Oh,  Davy!  will  he  die.f^'  she  cried 
aloud  suddenly. 


276    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"Davidson  met  three  men  in  the  doorway. 
They  made  way  for  him  without  actually  daring 
to  face  his  glance.  But  Bamtz  was  the  only  one 
who  looked  down  with  an  air  of  guilt.  The 
big  Frenchman  had  remained  lolling  in  his 
chair;  he  kept  his  stumps  in  his  pockets  and 
addressed  Davidson. 

" '  Isn't  it  unfortunate  about  that  child !  The 
distress  of  that  woman  there  upsets  me,  but  I 
am  of  no  use  in  the  world.  I  couldn't  smooth 
the  sick  pillow  of  my  dearest  friend.  I  have  no 
hands.  Would  you  mind  sticking  one  of  those 
cigarettes  there  into  the  mouth  of  a  poor,  harm- 
less cripple.^  My  nerves  want  soothing — upon 
my  honour,  they  do.' 

"Davidson  complied  with  his  naturally  kind 
smile.  As  his  outward  placidity  becomes  only 
piore  pronounced,  if  possible,  the  more  reason 
there  is  for  excitement;  and  as  Davidson's  eyes, 
when  his  wits  are  hard  at  work,  get  very  still 
and  as  if  sleepy,  the  huge  Frenchman  might 
have  been  justified  in  concluding  that  the  man 
there  was  a  mere  sheep — a  sheep  ready  for 
slaughter.  With  a  'merci  bien'  he  uplifted  his 
huge  carcase  to  reach  the  light  of  the  candle 
with  his  cigarette,  and  Davidson  left  the  house. 

"Going  down  to  the  ship  and  returning,  he 
had  time  to  consider  his  position.     At  first  he 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    277 

was  inclined  to  believe  that  these  men  (Niclaus 
— the  white  Nakhoda — was  the  only  one  he 
knew  by  sight  before,  besides  Bamtz)  were  not 
of  the  stamp  to  proceed  to  extremities.  This 
was  partly  the  reason  why  he  never  attempted 
to  take  any  measures  on  board.  His  pacific 
Kalashes  were  not  to  be  thought  of  as  against 
white  men.  His  wretched  engineer  would  have 
had  a  fit  from  fright  at  the  mere  idea  of  any  sort 
of  combat.  Davidson  knew  that  he  would  have  to 
depend  on  himself  in  this  affair  if  it  ever  came  off. 

"Davidson  underestimated  naturally  the 
driving  power  of  the  Frenchman's  character 
and  the  force  of  the  actuatiiiff  motive.  To 
that  man  so  hopelessly ,  crippled '>these  dollars 
were  an  enormous  oppoftuhTty.  With  his 
share  of  the  robbery  he  would  open  another 
shop  in  Vladivostok,  Hai-phong,  Mamla — some 
where  far  away. 

"Neither  did  it  occur  to  Davidson,  who  is  a 
man  of  courage,  if  ever  there  was  one,  that  his 
psychology  was  not  known  to  the  world  at 
large,  and  that  to  this  particular  lot  of  ruflSans, 
who  judged  him  by  his  appearance,  he  appeared 
an  unsuspicious,  inoffensive,  soft  creature,  as 
he  passed  again  through  the  room,  his  hands 
full  of  various  objects  and  parcels  destined  for 
the  sick  boy. 


^ 


'I 


278    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"All  the  four  were  sitting  again  round  the 
table.  Bamtz  not  having  the  pluck  to  open  his 
mouth,  it  was  Niclaus  who,  as  a  collective  voice, 
called  out  to  him  thickly  to  come  out  soon  and 
join  in  a  drink. 

"*I  think  I'll  have  to  stay  some  little  time  in 
there,  to  help  her  look  after  the  boy,'  Davidson 
answered  without  stopping. 

"This  was  a  good  thing  to  say  to  allay  a 
possible  suspicion.  And,  as  it  was,  Davidson 
felt  he  must  not  stay  very  long. 

"He  sat  down  on  an  old  empty  nail-keg  near 
the  improvised  cot  and  looked  at  the  child; 
while  Laughing  Anne,  moving  to  and  fro,  pre- 
paring the  hot  drink,  giving  it  to  the  boy  in 
spoonfuls,  or  stopping  to  gaze  motionless  at  the 
flushed  face,  whispered  disjointed  bits  of  in- 
formation. She  had  succeeded  in  making  friends 
with  that  French  devil.  Davy  would  under- 
stand that  she  knew  how  to  make  herself 
pleasant  to  a  man. 

"And  Davidson  nodded  without  looking  at 
her. 

"  The  big  beast  had  got  to  be  quite  confidential 
with  her.  She  held  his  cards  for  him  when  they 
were  having  a  game.  Bamtz!  Oh!  Bamtz  in 
his  funk  was  only  too  glad  to  see  the  Frenchman 
humoured.     And  the  Frenchman  had  come  to 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    279 

believe  that  she  was  a  woman  who  didn't  care 
what  she  did.  That's  how  it  came  about  they 
got  to  talk  before  her  openly.  For  a  long  time 
she  could  not  make  out  what  game  they  were 
up  to.  The  new  arrivals,  not  expecting  to  find 
a  woman  with  Bamtz,  had  been  very  startled 
and  annoyed  at  first,  she  explained. 

"She  busied  herself  in  attending  to  the  boy; 
and  nobody  looking  into  that  room  would  have 
seen  anything  suspicious  in  those  two  people 
exchanging  murmurs  by  the  sick-bedside. 

" 'But  now  they  think  I  am  a  better  man  than 
Bamtz  ever  was,'  she  said  with  a  faint  laugh. 

"The  child  moaned.  She  went  down  on  her 
knees,  and,  bending  low,  contemplated  him 
mournfully.  Then  raising  her  head,  she  asked 
Davidson  whether  he  thought  the  child  would 
get  better.  Davidson  was  sure  of  it.  She 
murmured  sadly:  'Poor  kid.  There's  nothing 
in  life  for  such  as  he.  Not  a  dog's  chance. 
But  I  couldn't  let  him  go,  Davy !     I  couldn't.' 

"Davidson  felt  a  profound  pity  for  the  child. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  knee  and  whispered  an 
earnest  warning  against  the  Frenchman.  Davy 
must  never  let  him  come  to  close  quarters. 
Naturally  Davidson  wanted  to  know  the  rea- 
son, for  a  man  without  hands  did  not  strike 
him  as  very  formidable  under  any  circumstances. 


280    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"*Mind  you  don't  let  him — that's  all,'  she 
insisted  anxiously,  hesitated,  and  then  confessed 
that  the  Frenchman  had  got  her  away  from  the 
others  that  afternoon  and  had  ordered  her  to 
tie  a  seven-pound  iron  weight  (out  of  the  set  of 
weights  Bamtz  used  in  business)  to  his  right 
stump.  She  had  to  do  it  for  him.  She  had 
been  afraid  of  his  sayag^  temper.  Bamtz  was 
such  a  craven,  and  neither  of  the  other  men 
would  have  cared  what  happened  to  her.  The 
Frenchman,  however,  with  many  awful  threats 
had  warned  her  not  to  let  the  others  know  what 
she  had  done  for  him.  Afterward  he  had  been 
trying  to  cajole  her.  He  had  promised  her 
that  if  she  stood  by  him  faithfully  in  this  busi- 
ness he  would  take  her  with  him  to  Hai-phong 
or  some  other  place.  A  poor  cripple  needed 
somebody  to  take  care  of  him — always. 

"Davidson  asked  her  again  if  they  really 
meant  mischief.  It  was,  he  told  me,  the  hardest 
thing  to  believe  he  had  run  up  against,  as  yet,  in 
his  life.  Anne  nodded.  The  Frenchman's  heart 
was  set  on  this  robbery.  Davy  might  expect 
them,  about  midnight,  creeping  on  board  his 
ship,  to  steal  anyhow — to  murder,  perhaps. 
Her  voice  sounded  weary,  and  her  eyes  remained 
fastened  on  her  child. 

"And  still  Davidson  could  not  accept  it  some- 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS  281 

how;  his  contempt  for  these  men  was  too 
great. 

"'Look  here,  Davy,'  she  said.  *I'll  go  out- 
side with  them  when  they  start,  and  it  will  be 
hard  luck  if  I  don't  find  something  to  laugh  at. 
They  are  used  to  that  from  me.  Laugh  or  cry 
— what's  the  odds.  You  will  be  able  to  hear 
me  oiTIBoard  on  this  quiet  night.  Dark  it  is 
too.     Oh !  it's  dark,  Davy !— it's  dark ! ' 

"'Don't  you  run  any  risks,'  said  Davidson. 
Presently  he  called  her  attention  to  the  boy, 
who,  less  flushed  now,  had  dropped  into  a  sound 
sleep.     'Look.     He'll  be  all  right.' 

"She  made  as  if  to  snatch  the  child  up  to  her 
breast,  but  restrained  herself.  Davidson  pre- 
pared to  go.     She  whispered  hurriedly: 

'"Mind,  Davy!  I've  told  them  that  you 
generally  sleep  aft  in  the  hammock  under  the 
awning  over  the  cabin.  They  have  been  ask- 
ing me  about  your  ways  and  about  your  ship, 
too.  I  told  them  all  I  knew.  I  had  to  keep  in 
with  them.  And  Bamtz  would  have  told  them 
if  I  hadn't — you  understand.'^' 

"He  made  a  friendly  sign  and  went  out.  The 
men  about  the  table  (except  Bamtz)  looked  at 
him.  This  time  it  was  Fector  who  spoke. 
*  Won't  you  join  us  in  a  quiet  game.  Captain  .^^ ' 

"Davidson  said  that  now  the  child  was  better 


282         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

he  thought  he  would  go  on  board  and  turn  in. 
Fector  was  the  only  one  of  the  four  whom  he 
had,  so  to  speak,  never  seen,  for  he  had  had  a 
good  look  at  the  Frenchman  already.  He  ob- 
served Fector's  muddy  eyes,  his  mean,  bitter 
mouth.  Davidson's  contempt  for  those  men  rose 
in  his  gorge,  while  his  placid  smile,  his  gentle 
tones  and  general  air  of  innocence  put  heart 
into  them.     They  exchanged  meaning  glances. 

"*We  shall  be  sitting  late  over  the  cards/ 
Fector  said  in  his  harsh,  low  voice. 

"*  Don't  make  more  noise  than  you  can  help.' 

"'Oh!  we  are  a  quiet  lot.  And  if  the  invalid 
shouldn't  be  so  well,  she  will  be  sure  to  send  one 
of  us  down  to  call  you,  so  that  you  may  play  the 
doctor  again.     So  don't  shoot  at  sight.' 

"  *He  isn't  a  shooting  man,'  struck  in  Niclaus. 

***I  never  shoot  before  making  sure  there's  a 
reason  for  it — at  any  rate,'  said  Davidson. 

**  Bamtz  let  out  a  sickly  snigger.  The  French- 
man alone  got  up  to  make  a  bow  to  Davidson's 
careless  nod.  His  stumps  were  stuck  immov- 
ably in  his  pockets.  Davidson  understood  now 
the  reason. 

"He  went  down  to  the  ship.  His  wits  were 
working  actively,  and  he  was  thoroughly  angry. 
He  smiled,  he  says  (it  must  have  been  the  first 
grim  smile  of  his  life),  at  the  thought  of  the 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         283 

seven-pound  weight  lashed  to  the  end  of  the 
Frenchman's  stump.  The  ruffian  had  taken 
that  precaution  in  case  of  a  quarrel  that  might 
arise  over  the  division  of  the  spoil.  A  man  with 
an  unsuspected  power  to  deal  killing  blows  could 
take  his  own  part  in  a  sudden  scrimmage  round 
a  heap  of  money,  even  against  adversaries 
armed  with  revolvers,  especially  if  he  himself 
started  the  row. 

"*He's  ready  to  face  any  of  his  friends  with 
that  thing.  But  he  will  have  no  use  for  it. 
There  will  be  no  occasion  to  quarrel  about  these 
dollars  here,'  thought  Davidson,  getting  on 
board  quietly.  He  never  paused  to  look  if 
there  was  anybody  about  the  decks.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  most  of  his  crew  were  on  shore, 
and  the  rest  slept,  stowed  away  in  dark  corners. 

"  He  had  his  plan,  and  he  went  to  work  me- 
thodically. 

"He  fetched  a  lot  of  clothing  from  below  and 
disposed  it  in  his  hammock  in  such  a  way  as  to 
distend  it  to  the  shape  of  a  human  body;  then  he 
threw  over  all  the  light  cotton  sheet  he  used  to 
draw  over  himself  when  sleeping  on  deck.  Hav- 
ing done  this,  he  loaded  his  two  revolvers  and 
clambered  into  one  of  the  boats  the  Sissie 
carried  right  aft,  swung  out  on  their  davits. 
Then  he  waited. 


284         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"And  again  the  doubt  of  such  a  thing  hap- 
pening to  him  crept  into  his  mind.  He  was 
almost  ashamed  of  this  ridiculous  vigil  in  a 
boat.  He  became  bored.  And  then  he  became 
drowsy.  The  stillness  of  the  black  universe 
•wearied  him.  There  was  not  even  the  lapping 
of  the  water  to  keep  him  company,  for  the  tide 
was  out  and  the  Sissie  was  lying  on  soft  mud. 
Suddenly  in  the  breathless,  soundless,  hot  night 
an  argus  pheasant  screamed  in  the  woods  across 
the  stream.  Davidson  started  violently,  all  his 
senses  on  the  alert  at  once. 

"The  candle  was  still  burning  in  the  house. 
Everything  was  quiet  again,  but  Davidson  felt 
drowsy  no  longer.  An  uneasy  premonition  of 
evil  oppressed  him. 

I  I  *'*  Surely  I  am  not  afraid,'  he  argued  with 
;    Ihimself. 

"The  silence  was  like  a  seal  on  his  ears,  and 
his  nervous  inward  impatience  grew  intolerable. 
He  commanded  himself  to  keep  still.  But  all 
the  same  he  was  just  going  to  jump  out  of  the 
boat  when  a  faint  ripple  on  the  immensity  of 
silence,  a  mere  tremor  in  the  air,  the  ghost  of  a 
.  >/silvery  laugh,  reached  his  ears. 

"Illusion! 

"He  kept  very  still.  He  had  no  diflSculty 
now  in  emulating  the  stillness  of  the  mouse — a 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         285 

grimly  determined  mouse.  But  he  could  not 
shake  off  that  premonition  of  evil  unrelated  to  the 
mere  danger  of  the  situation.  Nothing  hap- 
pened.    It  had  been  an  illusion ! 

"A  curiosity  came  to  him  to  learn  how  they 
would  go  to  work.  He  wondered  and  wondered, 
till  the  whole  thing  seemed  more  absurd  than 
ever. 

"He  had  left  the  hanging  lamp  in  the  cabin 
burning  as  usual.  It  was  part  of  his  plan  that 
everything  should  be  as  usual.  Suddenly  in  the 
dim  glow  of  the  skylight  panes  a  bulky  shadow 
came  up  the  ladder  without  a  sound,  made  two 
steps  toward  the  hammock  (it  hung  right  over 
the  skylight),  and  stood  motionless.  The 
Frenchman ! 

"The  minutes  began  to  slip  away.  Davidson 
guessed  that  the  Frenchman's  part  (the  poor 
cripple)  was  to  watch  his  (Davidson's)  slumbers 
while  the  others  were  no  doubt  in  the  cabin  busy 
forcing  off  the  lazarette  hatch. 

"What  was  the  course  they  meant  to  pursue 
once  they  got  hold  of  the  silver  (there  were  ten 
cases,  and  each  could  be  carried  easily  by  two 
men)  nobody  can  tell  now.  But  so  far,  David- 
son was  right.  They  were  in  the  cabin.  He  ex- 
pected to  hear  the  sounds  of  breaking-in  every 
moment.     But  the  fact  was  that  one  of  them 


286    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

(perhaps  Fector,  who  had  stolen  papers  out  of 
desks  in  his  time)  knew  how  to  pick  a  lock,  and 
apparently  was  provided  with  the  tools.  Thus 
while  Davidson  expected  every  moment  to  hear 
them  begin  down  there,  they  had  the  bar  off 
already  and  two  cases  actually  up  in  the  cabin 
out  of  the  lazarette. 

"In  the  diffused  faint  glow  of  the  skylight  the 
Frenchman  moved  no  more  than  a  statue. 
Davidson  could  have  shot  him  with  the  greatest 
ease — but  he  was  not  homicidally  inclined. 
Moreover,  he  wanted  to  make  sure  before  open- 
ing fire  that  the  others  had  gone  to  work.  Not 
hearing  the  sounds  he  expected  to  hear,  he  felt 
uncertain  whether  they  all  were  on  board  yet. 

"While  he  listened,  the  Frenchman,  whose 
immobility  might  have  but  cloaked  an  internal 
struggle,  moved  forward  a  pace,  then  another. 
Davidson,  entranced,  watched  him  advance  one 
leg,  withdraw  his  right  stump,  the  armed  one, 
out  of  his  pocket,  and  swinging  his  body  to  put 
greater  force  into  the  blow,  bring  the  seven- 
^ypound  weight  down  on  the  hammock  where 
the  head  of  the  sleeper  ought  to  have  been. 
^  "Davidson  admitted  to  me  that  his  hair 
stirred  at  the  roots  then.  But  for  Anne,  his 
unsuspecting  head  would  have  been  there.  The 
Frenchman's  surprise  must  have  been  simply 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         287 

overwhelming.  He  staggered  away  from  the 
lightly  swinging  hammock,  and  before  David- 
son could  make  a  movement  he  had  vanished, 
bounding  down  the  ladder  to  warn  and  alarm 
the  other  fellows. 

"Davidson  sprang  instantly  out  of  the  boat, 
threw  up  the  skylight  flap,  and  had  a  glimpse 
of  the  men  down  there  crouching  round  the 
hatch.  They  looked  up  scared,  and  at  that 
moment  the  Frenchman  outside  the  door  bel- 
lowed out  *  Trahison — trahison! '  They  bolted 
out  of  the  cabin,  falling  over  each  other  and 
swearing  awfully.  The  shot  Davidson  let  off 
down  the  skylight  had  hit  no  one;  but  he  ran 
to  the  edge  of  the  cabin-top  and  at  once  opened 
fire  at  the  dark  shapes  rushing  about  the  deck. 
These  shots  were  returned,  and  a  rapid  fusillade 
burst  out,  reports  and  flashes,  Davidson  dodg- 
ing behind  a  ventilator  and  pulling  the  trigger 
till  his  revolver  clicked,  and  then  throwing  it 
down  to  take  the  other  in  his  right  hand. 

"He  had  been  hearing  in  the  din  the  French- 
man's infuriated  yells  '  Tuez-le! — tuez-le! '  above 
the  fierce  cursing  of  the  others.  But  though 
they  fired  at  him  they  were  only  thinking  of 
clearing  out.  In  the  flashes  of  the  last  shots 
Davidson  saw  them  scrambling  over  the  rail. 
That  he  had  hit  more  than  one  he  was  certain. 


288         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

Two  different  voices  had  cried  out  in  pain. 
But  apparently  none  of  them  were  disabled. 

"Davidson  leaned  against  the  bulwark  re- 
loading his  revolver  without  haste.  He  had  not 
the  slightest  apprehension  of  their  coming  back. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  had  no  intention  of  pur- 
suing them  on  shore  in  the  dark.  What  they 
were  doing  he  had  no  idea.  Looking  to  their 
hurts  probably.  Not  very  far  from  the  bank 
the  invisible  Frenchman  was  blaspheming  and 
cursing  his  associates,  his  luck,  and  all  the 
world.  He  ceased;  then  with  a  sudden,  venge- 
ful yell,  'It's  that  woman! — it's  that  woman 
that  has  sold  us,'  was  heard  running  off  in  the 
night. 

"Davidson  caught  his  breath  in  a  sudden 
pang  of  remorse.  He  perceived  with  dismay 
that  the  stratagem  of  his  defence  had  given  Anne 
away.  He  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  It  was 
or  him  to  save  her  now.  He  leaped  ashore. 
But  even  as  he  landed  on  the  wharf  he  heard  a 
shrill  shriek  which  pierced  his  very  soul. 

"The  light  was  still  burning  in  the  house. 
Davidson,  revolver  in  hand,  was  making  for  it 
when  another  shriek,  away  to  his  left,  made 
him  change  his  direction. 

"He  changed  his  direction — but  very  soon  he 
stopped.     It  was  then  that  he  hesitated  in  cruel 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    289 

perplexity.  He  guessed  what  had  happened. 
The  woman  had  managed  to  escape  from  the 
house  in  some  way,  and  now  was  being  chased 
in  the  open  by  the  infuriated  Frenchman.  He 
trusted  she  would  try  to  run  on  board  for  pro- 
tection. 

"All  was  still  around  Davidson.  Whether 
she  had  run  on  board  or  not,  this  silence  meant 
that  the  Frenchman  had  lost  her  in  the  dark. 

"Davidson,  relieved,  but  still  very  anxious, 
turned  toward  the  river-side.  He  had  not 
made  two  steps  in  that  direction  when  another 
shriek  burst  out  behind  him,  again  close  to  the 
house. 

"He  thinks  that  the  Frenchman  had  lost 
sight  of  the  poor  woman  right  enough.  Then 
came  that  period  of  silence.  But  the  horrible 
ruflSan  had  not  given  up  his  murderous  purpose. 
He  reasoned  that  she  would  try  to  steal  back 
to  her  child,  and  went  to  lie  in  wait  for  her  near 
the  house. 

"It  must  have  been  something  like  that.  As 
she  entered  the  light  falling  about  the  house- 
ladder,  he  had  rushed  at  her  too  soon,  impatient 
for  vengeance.  She  had  let  out  that  second 
scream  of  mortal  fear  when  she  caught  sight  of 
him,  and  turned  to  run  for  life  again. 

"This  time  she  was  making  for  the  river. 


A, 

/h 


2G0    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

but  not  in  a  straight  line.  Her  shrieks  circled 
about  Davidson.  He  turned  on  his  heels,  fol- 
lowing the  horrible  trail  of  sound  in  the  darkness. 
He  wanted  to  shout  'This  way,  Anne!  I  am 
here!'  but  he  couldn't.  At  the  horror  of  this 
hase,  more  ghastly  in  his  imagination  than  if 
he  could  have  seen  it,the  perspiration  broke  out 
on  his  forhead,  while  his  throat  was  as  dry  a 
tinder.  A  last  supreme  scream  was  cut  short 
suddenly. 

"The  silence  which  ensued  was  even  more 
dreadful.  Davidson  felt  sick.  He  tore  his  feet 
from  the  spot  and  walked  straight  before  him, 
gripping  the  revolver  and  peering  into  the  ob- 
scurity fearfully.  Suddenly  a  bulky  shape 
sprang  from  the  ground  within  a  few  yards  of 
him  and  bounded  away.  Instinctively  he  fired 
at  it,  started  to  run  in  pursuit,  and  stumbled 
against  something  soft  which  threw  him  down 
headlong. 

''Even  as  he  pitched  forward  on  his  head  he 
knew  it  could  be  nothing  else  but  Laughing 
Anne's  body.  He  picked  himself  up  and,  re- 
maining on  his  knees,  tried  to  lift  her  in  his 
arms.  He  felt  her  so  limp  that  he  gave  it  up. 
She  was  lying  on  her  face,  her  long  hair  scattered 
on  the  ground.  Some  of  it  was  wet.  Davidson, 
feeling  about  her  head,  came  to  a  place  where 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    291 

the  crushed  bone  gave  way  under  his  fingers. 
But  even  before  that  discovery  he  knew  that 
she  was  dead.  The  pursuing  Frenchman  had 
flung  her  down  with  a  kick  from  behind,  and, 
squatting  on  her  back,  was  battering  in  her 
skull  with  the  weight  she  herself  had  fastened  to 
his  stump,  when  the  totally  unexpected  Davidson 
loomed  up  in  the  night  and  scared  him  away. 

"Davidson,  kneeling  by  the  side  of  that 
woman  done  so  miserably  to  death,  was  over- 
come by  remorse.  She  had  died  for  him.  Jlis 
manhood  was  as  if  stunned.  For  the  first  time 
he  felt^7ragr~He  might  have  been  pounced 
upon  in  the  dark  at  any  moment  by  the  mur- 
derer of  Laughing  Anne.  He  confesses  to  the 
impulse  of  creeping  away  from  that  pitiful 
corpse  on  his  hands  and  knees  to  the  refuge  of 
the  ship.  He  even  says  that  he  actually  began 
to  do  so.  .  .  . 

"One  can  hardly  picture  to  oneself  Davidson 
crawling  away  on  all  fours  from  the  murdered 
woman — Davidson  unmanned  and  crushed  by 
the  idea  that  she  had  died  for  him  in  a  sense. 
But  he  could  not  have  gone  very  far.  What 
stopped  him  was  the  thought  of  the  boy, 
Laughing  Anne's  child,  that  (Davidson  remem- 
bered her  very  words)  would  not  have  a  dog's 
chance. 


292    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"This  life  the  woman  had  left  behind  her 

appeared  to  Davidson's  conscience  in  the  light 

of  a  sacred  trust.     He  assumed  an  erect  attitude 

(/and,  quaking  inwardly  still,  turned  about  and 

walked  toward  the  house. 

"For  all  his  tremors  he  was  very  determined; 
but  that  smashed  skull  had  affected  his  imagina- 
tion, and  he  felt  very  defenceless  in  the  dark- 
ness, in  which  he  seemed  to  hear  faintly  now 
here,  now  there,  the  prowling  footsteps  of  the 
murderer  without  hands.  But  he  never  faltered 
in  his  purpose.  He  got  away  with  the  boy 
safely  after  all.  The  house  he  found  empty. 
A  profound  silence  encompassed  him  all  the 
time,  except  once,  just  as  he  got  down  the 
ladder  with  Tony  in  his  arms,  when  a  faint 
groan  reached  his  ears.  It  seemed  to  come 
from  the  pitch-black  space  between  the  posts 
on  which  the  house  was  built,  but  he  did  not 
stop  to  investigate. 

"It's  no  use  teUing  you  in  detail  how  David- 
son got  on  board  with  the  burden  Anne's 
miserably  cruel  fate  had  thrust  into  his  arms; 
how  next  morning  his  scared  crew,  after  ob- 
serving from  a  distance  the  state  of  affairs  on 
board,  rejoined  with  alacrity;  how  Davidson 
went  ashore  and,  aided  by  his  engineer  (still 
half    dead    with    fright),    rolled    up    Laughing 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         293 

Anne's  body  in  a  cotton  sheet  and  brought  it 
on  board  for  burial  at  sea  later.  While  busy 
with  this  pious  task,  Davidson,  glancing  about, 
perceived  a  huge  heap  of  white  clothes  huddled 
up  against  the  corner-post  of  the  house.  That 
it  was  the  Frenchman  lying  there  he  could  not 
doubt.  Taking  it  in  connection  with  the  dismal 
groan  he  had  heard  in  the  night,  Davidson  is 
pretty  sure  that  his  random  shot  gave  a  mortal 
hurt  to  the  murderer  of  poor  Anne. 

"As  to  the  others,  Davidson  never  set  eyes 
on  a  single  one  of  them.  Whether  they  had 
concealed  themselves  in  the  scared  settlement, 
or  Bolted  into  the  foresI^"or~were  hiding  on 
board  Niclaus's  prau,  which  could  be  seen  lying 
on  the  mud  a  hundred  yards  or  so  higher  up 
the  creek,  the  fact  is  that  they  (^anish^t  and 
Davidson  did  not  trouble  his  head  about  them. 
He  lost  no  time  in  getting  out  of  the  creek 
directly  the  Sissie  floated.  After  steaming 
some  twenty  miles  clear  of  the  coast,  he  (in 
his  own  words)  'committed  the  body  to  the 
deep.'  He  did  everything  himself.  He  weighted 
her  down  with  a  few  fire-bars,  he  read  the 
service,  he  lifted  the  plank,  he  was  the  only 
mourner.  And  while  he  was  rendering  these 
last  services  to  the  dead,  the  desolation  of  that 
life  and  the  atrocious  wretchedness  of  its  end 


^94         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

cried  aloud  to  his  compassion,  whispered  to 
him  in  tones  of  self-reproach. 

"He  ought  to  have  handled  the  warning  she 
had  given  him  in  another  way.  He  was  con- 
vinced now  that  a  simple  display  of  watchful- 
ness would  have  been  enough  to  restrain  that 
vile  and  cowardly  crew.  But  the  fact  was  that 
he  had  not  quite  believed  that  anything  would 
be  attempted. 

"The  body  of  Laughing  Anne  having  been 
'committed  to  the  deep'  some  twenty  miles 
S.S.W.  from  Cape  Selatan,  the  task  before 
Davidson  was  to  commit  La.ughing  Anne's  child 
to  the  care  of  his  wife.  And  there  poor,  good 
Davidson  made  a  fatal  move.  He  didn't  want 
to  tell  her  the  whole  awful  story,  since  it  in- 
volved the  knowledge  of  the  danger  from  which 
he,  Davidson,  had  escaped.  And  this,  too, 
after  he  had  been  laughing  at  her  unreasonable 
fears  only  a  short  time  before. 

"'I  thought  that  if  I  told  her  everything,' 
Davidson  explained  to  me,  *she  would  never 
have  a  moment's  peace  while  I  was  away  on 
my  trips.' 

"He  simply  stated  that  the  boy  was  an 
orphan,  the  child  of  some  people  to  whom  he, 
Davidson,  was  under  the  greatest  obligation, 
and  that  he  felt  morally  bound  to  look  after 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    295 

him.  Some  day  he  would  tell  her  more,  he 
said,  and  meantime  he  trusted  in  the  goodness 
and  warmth  of  her  heart,  in  her  woman's  natural 
compassion. 

"He  did  not  know  that  her  heart  was  about 
the  size  of  a  parched  pea,  and  had  the  propor- 
tional amount  of  warmth;  and  that  her  faculty 
of  compassion  was  mainly  directed  to  herself. 
He  was  only  startled  and  disappointed  at  the 
air  of  cold  surprise  and  the  suspicious  look  with 
which  she  received  his  imperfect  tale.  But  she 
did  not  say  much.  She  never  had  much  to  say. 
She  was  a  fool  of  the  silent,  hopeless  kind. 

"What  story  Davidson's  crew  thought  fit  to 
set  afloat  in  Malay  town  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  Davidson  himself  took  some  of  his 
friends  into  his  confidence,  besides  giving  the 
full  story  officially  to  the  Harbour  Master. 

"The  Harbour  Master  was  considerably 
astonished.  He  didn't  think,  however,  that  a 
formal  complaint  should  be  made  to  the  Dutch  ^ 
Government.  They  would  probably  do  noth- 
ing in  the  end,  after  a  lot  of  trouble  and  cor- 
respondence. The  robbery  had  not  come  off, 
after  all.  Those  vagabonds  could  be  trusted 
to  go  to  the  devil  in  their  own  way.  No  amount 
of  fuss  would  bring  the  poor  woman  to  life 
again,  the  actual  murderer  had  been  done  justice 


296    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

to  by  a  chance  shot  from  Davidson.  Better 
let  the  matter  drop. 

"This  was  good  common  sense.  But  he  was 
impressed. 

" 'Sounds  a  terrible  affair,  Captain  Davidson.' 

"'Aye,  terrible  enough,'  agreed  the  remorseful 
Davidson.  But  the  most  terrible  thing  for  him, 
though  he  didn't  know  it  then,  was  that  his 
wife's  silly  brain  was  slowly  coming  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Tony  was  Davidson's  child,  and 
that  he  had  invented  that  lame  story  to  intro- 
duce him  into  her  pure  home  in  defiance  of 
ydecency,  of  virtue — of  her  most  sacred  feelings. 

"Davidson  was  aware  of  some  constraint  in 
his  domestic  relations.  But  at  the  best  of  times 
she  was  not  demonstrative;  and  perhaps  that 
very  coldness  was  part  of  her  charm  in  the 
placid  Davidson's  eyes.  Women  are  loved  for 
all  sorts  of  reasons  and  even  for  characteristics 
which  one  would  think  repellent.  She  was 
watching  him  and  nursing  her  suspicions. 

"Then,  one  day.  Monkey -faced  Ritchie  called 
on  that  sweet,  shy  Mrs.  Davidson.  She  had 
come  out  under  his  care,  and  he  considered  him- 
self a  privileged  person — her  oldest  friend  in  the 
tropics.  He  posed  for  a  great  admirer  of  hers. 
He  was  always  a  great  chatterer.  He  had  got 
hold  of  the  story  rather  vaguely,  and  he  started 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS    297 

chattering  on  that  subject,  thinking  she  knew 
all  about  it.  And  in  due  course  he  let  out  some- 
thing about  Laughing  Anne. 

"'Laughing  Anne,'  says  Mrs.  Davidson  with 
a  start.     'What's  that.?' 

"Ritchie  plunged  into  circumlocution  at  once, 
but  she  very  soon  stopped  him.  'Is  that  crea- 
ture dead? '  she  asks. 

'"I  believe  so,'  stammered  Ritchie.  'Your 
husband  says  so.' 

'"But  you  don't  know  for  certain? ' 

" ' No !    How  could  I,  Mrs.  Davidson ! ' 

'"That's  all  I  wanted  to  know,'  says  she,  and 
goes  out  of  the  room. 

"When  Davidson  came  home  she  was  ready 
to  go  for  him,  not  with  common  voluble  indigna- 
tion, but  as  if  trickling  a  stream  of  cold  clear 
water  down  his  back.  She  talked  of  his  base 
intrigue  with  a  vile  woman,  of  being  made  a 
fool  of,  of  the  insult  to  her  dignity. 

"Davidson  begged  her  to  listen  to  him  and 
told  her  all  the  story,  thinking  that  it  would 
move  a  heart  of  stone.  He  tried  to  make  her 
understand  his  remorse.  She  heard  him  to  the 
end,  said  'Indeed!'  and  turned  her  back  on  him. 

'"Don't  you  believe  me?'  he  asked,  appalled. 

"She  didn't  say  yes  or  no.  All  she  said  was, 
'Send  that  brat  away  at  once.' 


298         BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"*I  can't  throw  him  out  into  the  street,'  cried 
Davidson.     *  You  don't  mean  it.' 

*"I  don't  care.  There  are  charitable  institu- 
tions for  such  children,  I  suppose.' 

"  'That  I  will  never  do,'  said  Davidson. 

" '  Very  well.     That's  enough  for  me.' 

"Davidson's  home  after  this  was  like  a  silent, 
frozen  hell  for  him.  A  stupid  woman  with  a 
sense  of  grievance  is  worse  than  an  unchained 
devil.  He  sent  the  boy  to  the  White  Fathers  in 
iMalacca. J  This  was  not  a  very  expensive  sort  of 
education,  but  she  could  not  forgive  him  for  not 
casting  the  offensive  child  away  utterly.  She 
worked  up  her  sense  of  her  wifely  wrongs  and 
of  her  injured  purity  to  such  a  pitch  that  one 
day,  when  poor  Davidson  was  pleading  with 
her  to  be  reasonable  and  not  to  make  an  impos- 
sible existence  for  them  both,  she  turned  on  him 
in  a  chill  passion  and  told  him  that  his  very 
sight  was  odious  to  her. 

"Davidson,  with  his  scrupulous  delicacy  of 
feeling,  was  not  the  man  to  assert  his  rights  over 
a  woman  who  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  him. 
He  bowed  his  head;  and  shortly  afterward  ar- 
ranged for  her  to  go  back  to  her  parents.  That 
was  exactly  what  she  wanted  in  her  outraged 
dignity.  And  then  she  had  always  disliked  the 
tropics  and  had  detested  secretly  the  people 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS         299 

she  had  to  live  amongst  as  Davidson's  wife. 
She  took  her  pure,  sensitive,  mean  little  soul 
away  to  Fremantle  or  somewhere  in  that  direc- 
tion. And  of  course  the  little  girl  went  away 
with  her  too.  What  could  poor  Davidson  have 
done  with  a  little  girl  on  his  hands,  even  if  she 
had  consented  to  leave  her  with  him — which  is 
unthinkable. 

"This  is  the  story  that  has  spoiled  Davidson's 
smile  for  him — which  perhaps  it  wouldn't  have 
done  so  thoroughly  had  he  been  less  of  a  good 
fellow." 

Hollis  ceased.  But  before  we  rose  from  the 
table  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  what  had  become  of 
Laughing  Anne's  boy. 

He  counted  carefully  the  change  handed  him 
by  the  Chinaman  waiter,  and  raised  his  head. 

"Oh!  that's  the  finishing  touch.  He  was  a 
bright,  taking  little  chap,  as  you  know,  and  the 
Fathers  took  very  special  pains  in  his  bringing 
up.  Davidson  expected  in  his  heart  to  have 
some  comfort  out  of  him.  In  his  placid  way 
he's  a  man  who  needs  affection.  Well,  Tony 
has  grown  into  a  fine  youth — but  there  you  are ! 

(He  wants  to  be  a  priest;  his  one  dream  is  to  be  a 
missionary.  The  Fathers  assure  Davidson  that 
it  IS  a  serious  vocation.  They  tell  him  he  has  a 
special  disposition  for  mission  work,  too.     So 


300    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

Laughing  Anne's  boy  will  lead  a  saintly  life  in 
China  somewhere;  he  may  even  become  a  martyr; 
but  poor  Davidson  is  left  out  in  the  cold.  He 
will  have  to  go  downhill  without  a  single  human 
affection  near  him  because  of  these  old  dollars." 

Jan.  1914. 


-rrf 


rrs  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  Ti  A  "^T  r^ATT 
-     -K   r.  -.T,  BEX-'' 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


C'u 


JAN  9    1963 


HHi^i^lVEO 


0CT22-fi7^4pM 


LQAN  mPT, 


\u-i'^  :> 


mi^im 


RECCIRMAV  21190> 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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